


On the Edge of the Precipice

by Capostrophe



Series: At The End of the Day [10]
Category: Bread (TV)
Genre: Benefit Fraud, Declarations Of Love, Denial of Feelings, Divorce, Drunk Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Heartbreak, Past Relationship(s), Social Security
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capostrophe/pseuds/Capostrophe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love only leads to loss and pain, and  Martina has made a decision- never love anyone, ever again.  And she's perfectly able to stick to this resolution, until someone unexpected walks back into her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Edge of the Precipice

 

**1994**

Martina's made a firm decision. Never, ever, _ever_ , under any circumstances, let anyone play her for a fool again.

She's picked herself up quite neatly following her split with Shifty. True, there were the phone calls, the arguments about why it was all happening, the anger, but that seems to have evened out a bit more now. She lives in perhaps the tiniest flat to ever have existed, but it's hers. No-one has ever shared it, no-one ever will, and there aren't and will never be any painful memories attached to it. It's a longer walk to work, but it's a price worth paying for her freedom to live a peaceful life on her own.

She's alone but that's the way she likes it. Nice and safe. Nice and boring. She's regained some measure of control over herself, and though life hasn't improved much- still the same monotony it always was- she's reasonably…well, maybe 'content' isn't the right word. That implies some degree of happiness, and Martina's never happy. Reasonably secure in what she's got, anyway. It'll do.

Without the stress of Shifty, her life trundles along as it should, day after day on the same treadmill, no changes, no surprises. It's still not the great, glittering life others aspire to, still more of an existence than anything else, but it's better than the one she had before, so she doesn't complain. The worst that happens to her now is a run-in with a particularly nasty client. And she's dealt with so many of those before that it's nothing she can't handle. She devotes herself entirely to her job, and makes the most she can out of it.

She has resolved to a) do as well at her job as she possibly can, b) never be so imbecilic as to fall for anyone's tricks again and c) never fall in love again. This one is especially important, she reminds herself. Because it's love that makes her foolish and blind, and it's what drives her to violate a) and b). It's what made her keep sticking up for her brother, even when she knew he was running afoul of the law. It's what made her keep taking Shifty back, and she's never going through something like that again. She's going to stick with her plan, no matter what. Strong feelings get in the way of her and the peaceful life she wants so badly to maintain.

And she's going quite well with all three subclauses of this resolution, until someone who's long been gone from her life walks right back into it.

She's sitting behind her desk in the DHSS- or the DSS, as it's now called, though she and indeed countless others can't shake off the old title- and going through each of the papers in her in-tray carefully, ensuring not a single detail is overlooked. No one is ever going to slip through the cracks of the system again- not on her watch. Every escape through a loophole will be carefully investigated; she'll personally make sure of that. She means business now.

Martina is pleased with the progress she's made, is considering treating herself to an early night, to leaving the rest for tomorrow, when, with the sweep of a coat, someone all-too-familiar strides in and takes a seat in front of her counter.

No, it can't be.

He opens his mouth to speak.

It can't be. It isn't. No. _No._

'Greetings!'

But it is. It's Joey Boswell.

She hasn't seen him for a while- not since he'd married, his organic business had taken off and he'd been far more interested in his growing family than in swindling more benefits and cancelled his allowance, much to her enormous shock. It's been a few years at least, and she barely recognises him now. He's cultivated a slightly more modern, more mature style, blonde hair gone dark, a long leather coat in a sleeker cut than the jackets of old. He looks even more like the leader of an organised crime syndicate now than he did back in the day. Everything in life has changed, even her old adversary.

But then he grins at her, that familiar, boyish, cheeky smile, and no, she thinks, he hasn't changed at all.

'You look different,' she observes.

'So do you. More…' he makes a shape with his hands, ' _severe.'_

It's true, he's not the only one who's had a change of image. Martina's hair is pulled strictly back from her face, shoulder pads so sharp they're almost aggressive- which is what she'd wanted. She's not going to let anyone push her around ever again, and she wants to give that impression straight away. Not only that, her face has hardened, she thinks. She looks at herself some days and can barely recall what a genuine smile used to look like on it.

'What happened to that sweet girl who used to shut her eyes and play guess-who's-sittin'-in-the-chair-in-front-o'-me?'

'I think yer memory's not what it was, Mister Boswell,' she leans forward, hitting him with her best evil smirk. 'I was never sweet.'

'I beg to differ, sunshine. It was quite adorable, the way you thought you were out to get me…'

' _Thought_ I was?'

'You never caught me, did you?'

'Didn't have to in the end. The tax man did it for me.'

'Ah, yes,' Joey says.

'That was a good day fer me.'

'Because you got your revenge, or because you got a free pizza out of it?'

She snorts in spite of herself. That part had slipped her memory.

'Well, that too. I'm not gonna complain if one of me clients decides to feed me- even if it _was_ a grovel.' Martina laughs dryly as she remembers.

'It worked, didn't it? You gave me the form.'

'Believe it or not, that wasn't the reason.'

'No?'

'Something along the lines of red tape, if memory serves me correctly.'

'If that's what you want to believe.' He leans back in his chair, tilting it back onto two legs. Martina should probably tell him off for that- it's dangerous- but the idea of him falling is an appealing one, so she says nothing and hopes the chair will topple. 'But personally, I think it had more to do with me brilliant skills of persuasion.'

'If that's what you want to believe,' she echoes him.

'How are you, these days, dear lady?' he changes the subject, voice chipper and bright. 'You still with Shifty?'

She flinches. The use of the name still stings.

'No.'

'Ah,' says Joey, nodding. 'His nickin' things get too much for you?'

She purses her lips. 'I'd rather not talk about it.' _Especially with you of all people._

Joey holds up his hands. 'Meant no offense, sweetheart. I understand- I, er,' a hitch of breath, 'I recently lost my wife.'

'Oh,' Martina says, slightly embarrassed. 'I'm so sorry.'

'No, no,' Joey chuckles, and she remembers the sound well. It takes her back to another place and time. 'I didn't mean it like _that_ , no, she's not _dead!_ We got a divorce about two years ago.'

'I see.' This is getting awkward, fast.

'That's one of the reasons I'm here, actually,' that smile again, that _I'm about to lead up to a life-changing speech_ smile. She's quite forgotten all these different Joey Boswell expressions- at one point she'd known them by heart, and to see them now brings back to her very vividly the time when he'd first started coming to the DHSS to claim, when they'd both been younger and flirtatious and always waging a little battle with one another. How long ago must that be now? Ten years? A long time, anyway. It makes her feel tired.

'Alimony doesn't just pay itself, you know,' Mister Boswell goes on.

She squares her shoulders. 'What happened to your successful business?'

'Not so successful after all, Martina. I decided, in one of my bouts of great wisdom, to return to what I could do best. And answer me this- what's the point in toilin' away day after day for me pennies…' he reaches out, touches her face, 'when I can get such lovely service here?'

'You 'aven't grown up at all, have you? You're just as immature as you were a decade ago. Always expecting that havin' everything handed to you on a plate is your natural right…'

'There's no law against it, is there?'

'Shirking any form of responsibility…'

'Now just a minute there, sweetheart. Do kindly remember I have a large and somewhat strugglin' family to take care of.'

'Ah, yes.' She smacks herself in the head. 'The _family._ How silly of me to have forgotten. The be-all and the end-all of the universe.'

'I'm just _sayin'_ , takin' care of 'em is a responsibility…'

'We're not talkin' about children 'ere, Mister Boswell. Your family are all adults, and all as crafty as you are. Well,' she rethinks this, 'most of them.' That Billy isn't exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.

'They're all perfectly capable of takin' care of themselves. Yer family isn't a responsibility, it's an excuse for the lot of you never to have to _take_ any responsibility. You all cling together in a little commune, gatherin' together all your money into a big pile and usin' your shared genetics as an excuse to bleed the country dry.'

'What you see as stayin' together for an excuse is merely…'

'Unity?' the word rolls off her tongue so easily, and it almost scares her that she can dive straight back into a skirmish of old like no time has passed at all.

'Precisely.'

And then it's the usual routine: pick up form, toss onto counter, provide pen. _Fill that in._ Pen is returned and replaced with musical gold one. Tune plays. A great, big, flowing, show-offy signature. All clockwork. It must be like- what's the expression?- riding a bicycle. Not that Martina ever learned to do that, but she gets the general idea of the saying. You never really forget something that runs so smoothly, so simply.

Joey hands the form back to her, beaming. 'Aren't you glad I'm back?'

'No. I'm mortified.'

Another laugh. 'That's the spirit.' And he gets up and goes, and his walk is the same, the noise the heels of his expensive shoes make on the floor, it's all familiar.

'Oh,' he turns back with an afterthought, 'if I might just make a suggestion, sweetheart?'

She sighs. 'Go on.'

Joey reaches forward and around her head. She stares at him, unsure what he's up to. He pulls the clasp from her hair and it all falls loose.

'Better,' he says, fanning it out around her shoulders. 'Go back to wearin' your hair the way you used to. Suits you better.'

With a wink and a click of his tongue he's gone, and Martina fumes about the whole thing. The last thing she needs now is for Joey Boswell to walk back into her life, just when she's starting to change its direction, trying to make something of it for once. It's not fair- just as she seems to be making some sort of progress, circumstances beyond her control force her to take a step backward. It seems like she's going to be trapped back in the same old routine again, falling back into the Boswell banter that plagued her days.

She's not happy he's back. Not even in the slightest.

But from then on she wears her hair down.

* * *

She sees him quite a lot after that. He returns to the Social Security building with alarming regularity, just as he used to, and though the reasons for his claims have changed, he employs the same tricks, ices his words with the same thick layer of purple prose, wears the same obnoxious smile. And she gets right back into the flow of things, engaging in the verbal battles of the olden days, enjoying the fight, enjoying the thrill of the mental spar and the immense satisfaction that comes from scoring a point.

Her job becomes a bit more interesting again. Interesting, and about a hundred times more difficult, because she finds herself constantly researching ways to catch him out, constantly trying to find flaws in his cleverly crafted stories. She's finding she likes the challenge, though. Everyone else's tricks were too quickly unearthed- this gives her a bit more to do, which fits well with her resolution to throw herself into her work.

Everything goes along as it should.

But something odd is happening, because this new, improved Joey Boswell, although just as arrogant as he always was, is having a different effect on Martina to what she'd expected.

She can't explain it. It's little things, things she thinks she's taking no notice of, but then reacts to without thinking.

He compliments her on the way her light blue shirt 'brings out her beautiful eyes'. It's strategic, meant to fluster her, flatter her so she'll give him what he wants, and she knows this full well.

She buys another like it.

She brings her old tape recorder in, and in a throwback to old times, plays a mournful dirge on it while he prattles on. He names the composer and the piece, then, with a wink suggests a more suitable song, one he likes more.

She goes out and finds the tape of it.

Martina chalks it up to more than her fair share of confusion- still trying to claw her way back from her split with Shifty, and pleased to have something more interesting to do where her job is concerned. Because Joey Boswell _does_ count as 'work', as part of her job, she decides, and so any time or money or effort spent on his behalf can be considered as a business expense.

And so it all rolls along, everything going swimmingly.

Until she encounters him outside the DSS.

And then somehow, it all starts making sense and at the same time crumbles into tiny pieces.

* * *

She's in the pub at the time. Martina doesn't drink a lot, as a rule- after observing what whiskey did to her brother, the way he spiralled, the trouble he landed in, now officially wanted for non-payment of enormous debts among other things- she generally steers clear of it, apart from the odd glass now and again.

But tonight's just one of those nights- she'd been stressed and tired and walking home past a cosy-looking tavern and now here she is with a glass of white wine warming in her hand, her head resting on her arm as she sits at the bar, absently watching and listening to everything going on around her.

She thinks she might just doze off now, for a while. Nobody'll be bothered if she does, and she's really not up to dragging herself off home just yet.

A hand comes to rest on her shoulder, warm and heavy. She jumps.

'Long day?'

She shudders with relief at the sound of his voice.

'Mister Boswell,' she murmurs, slowly raising her head from her arm.

'Greetings!' Joey says, and that charming smile comes out. 'And what brings a lovely lady such as yourself to a place like this?'

'The need ter escape from the likes o' you,' she opens immediately with a quip. It's as if a sign's gone off in her brain- _Boswell in sight. Let battle commence._

'Ah, but I am inescapable, sunshine. Inescapable.'

He takes a seat on the stool beside her.

'Oh, I've noticed _that_ much, Mister Boswell. I thought for a while there I was never gonna see yer face in the Social Security buildin' again. You lulled me into a false sense o' security, and then you were back fer another round o' scroungin'. I'm never gonna get rid o' you, am I?'

'Not unless you dump me body in the river, sweetheart.' Joey gives her an enormous smile, complete with flashing molars.

'Don't tempt me.'

'You wouldn't,' he teases. 'You're really quite fond of me, aren't you?'

'And _what_ would give yer that impression?'

'I am an extremely perceptive man, you know.'

'Oh, yeah? I'd be more inclined to say extremely self-important. You'd love ter think the entire world was smitten with you, wouldn't yer?'

Joey gives her a cheeky look and she immediately regrets whatever she might have said to make him do so.

'I didn't say _smitten_. I said _fond_. Bit of a Freudian slip there, was it?'

Martina clenches her teeth. ' _Most certainly not._ '

Joey just laughs at her, and then reaches over, taking the drink from her hand and examining the contents.

'Furnish the lady with another of the same,' he tells the bartender cheerily, sliding her half-empty glass back over the bar. Martina gapes.

'Well,' he grins, 'it's not every day an attractive woman admits they fancy you, is it? I think that warrants me buyin' you a drink.'

'I am _not_ smitten with you,' Martina growls.

Joey just holds out the glass to her.

'No.'

'Oh, go on. I got it just for you.'

'Drink it yerself. I didn't ask fer it.'

'Martina, _sweetheart_ , I was just messin' with you. I wasn't really sayin' I thought you were smitten- it's just a friendly drink.'

Martina exhales, accepts it from him, though she's still glaring at him.

She puts it to her lips.

'Unless you yourself want to admit that you _are_ in fact totally head over heels.'

She puts the glass down with a clunk. 'That's it. I'm off.'

'Oh, _stay_ , sweetheart, please,' he coaxes, 'I was lookin' forward to talkin' to you.'

'Why?' she raises an eyebrow but she settles herself back into her seat and picks up her glass again anyway. 'Hopin' to get me on me own so you can somehow convince me to give yer more benefits?'

'Among other things,' Joey jests. 'But we never talk, do we, sweetheart? Apart from about money, that is.'

'Well, perhaps there's a _reason_ for that. Seein' as 'ow I work in an establishment which supplies you with money, and you can think o' precious little else.'

'You wound me when you say things like that, sweetheart. I think of other things besides money.'

'Oh, yeah? Such as? Leather gear? Gold watches?' the little bit of alcohol she's had makes her summon enough nerve to take hold of his left wrist, turn it up, but there's no Cartier watch there anymore. Martina blinks. The Joey Boswell she knows would never appear in public without being blinged-up first.

She gives him a questioning look. Joey pulls his arm back, pushing his sleeve down.

'Lost it, did you?'

'I, er,' Joey clears his throat, clearly ashamed, 'I sold it.'

Martina's taken aback. The Joey Boswell she knows would never sell his possessions, either. That's just madness. Even when he's been in enormous debt he hasn't resorted to that- even when he owed twenty thousand pounds he came down to scrounge, asked for the Enterprise Allowance Scheme, convinced his father to sell his flat rather than get rid of his finery.

Joey catches her befuddled look. 'Desperate times, Martina. Desperate times.'

Martina swallows more of her wine, deciding she's feeling brave. 'Oh, yeah? What made yer so desperate? Couldn't the family club together this time?'

Something strange comes over the man's face, and it occurs to Martina that she may have gone too far.

'Oh, they did club together in the end. Just in the nick o' time- saved me from havin' to sell me Jag. I'd already got rid of nearly everythin' else, though.'

'Why?' She shouldn't be asking. It's nothing to do with her. But she's so used to questioning everything he says and does- it's automatic. 'It'd 'ave ter take an apocalypse- or a total financial collapse-to make you think about sellin' yer Jag.'

'Oh, it was, sweetheart. It was. Well,' he shrugs. 'Close enough, anyway. It was when me divorce was comin' through, and I was runnin out o' money for the solicitor's bills…'

'Tryin' ter win the house, were you?' Really, she should quit while she's ahead. She knows she's making him uncomfortable, but for some reason she presses on anyway. Joey swigs some of his own drink and squares his shoulders.

'Not-the house, no. But there was a kid…'

'Oh. I see.'

'He wasn't my actual son- not by birth or anythin'. He was hers from a previous…well, anyway, didn't make any difference to me. I still loved him, you know.'

Martina wonders why he's telling her all this. They're not confidantes in any way shape or form- they're not even _friends_. They're enemies. But he wants to tell her, and she wants to hear.

She'll use it against him later, she resolves. When she's more in the mood to.

'I see.'

'And she wouldn't let me see 'im- flat-out refused.'

'That must've hurt.'

'It did, yeah.' He's silent and pensive, swirling his finger around in the top of his glass.

Martina finishes the dregs of her wine, and Joey notices, takes her empty glass and orders another one.

'Eh- stop it! I don't need any _more_!'

Joey just winks, passes the new beverage to her. 'Don't sweat, sunshine. Tab's on me.'

Martina rolls her eyes. Joey Boswell doesn't half fancy himself a gentleman, sometimes. It's incredibly obnoxious, pretentious…and she smiles at it.

He buys himself a fresh one too, raises his glass to her.

Martina clinks with him without thinking, and there's a moment when their eyes lock, and she sees something strange pass through his. She feels herself shiver, and frantically tries to remember her place in the conversation.

'So did you win, then?'

Joey blinks. 'I'm sorry, sweetheart?'

'The case,' she clarifies, 'did you win?'

Joey falls silent, and that's answer enough.

'Oh. I'm sorry.'

'Well,' he makes an attempt to seem normal, happy, 'no use cryin' over it, hey? And like you said, the fam-i-ly clubbed together to help me with the solicitors' bills. And I've started refilling my inventory with lovely things, now I've come back to the Social Security, with your lovely service…'

'Don't start…' she warns.

He tosses his head, goes back to his drink.

Martina sits for a while, tries to leave the bait, but in the end, temptation proves too much. ' _And_ o' course, all the little lucrative schemes you've got on the side, ter supplement yer Social Security.'

Joey waggles his eyebrows but doesn't pass comment, a sort of indirect admission. She widens her eyes at him, and he laughs. 'I didn't say anythin', sweetheart. You've got no evidence to convict.'

And she winds up laughing too.

'What about Shifty, then?' he inquires once they've settled down.

The question sets Martina's teeth on edge. She doesn't want to answer, but he's just spilled his guts out, and she feels she owes him somehow.

He senses she's uncomfortable, presses yet another new glass into her hand. 'Here. For Dutch courage.'

She swallows it gratefully, finishing off the entire thing in one go, and begins to relate the crashing-and-burning of their relationship, the woes, the constant stealing and affairs, the way it got to a point where she was either going to leave or die in her own misery, and she chose to leave. He listens to it all with a solemn face.

It's very odd, the fact that here she is, with her worst enemy in all the world, chatting away as if they're old friends, and accepting drinks from him as if she actually trusts him, as if it's perfectly acceptable to be drinking with someone like him. And they're _telling_ each other things- and not just _things_ things, but personal things. Heartfelt things. The sort of things you don't just blab out to random acquaintances. They must both have drunk more than they should, to be doing this. Perhaps, Martina thinks, it's high time this stopped.

But instead, she finds her curiosity gnawing at her, and a question spills off her tongue, the wine helping it along. While she's got him here, outside a work context, she might as well make the most of it.

'Why don't your family talk ter Shifty anymore?'

' _Ah_ ,' Joey raises one finger. 'That.'

' _That_ ,' Martina repeats.

'Well, it's a little hard to say…'

'If it involves badmouthin' 'im, you don't need ter worry,' she tells him. 'As I said, I'm not seein' 'im anymore.'

'Well,' Joey says again, tenting his fingers, 'it was a few years ago- prob'ly what? Three now? Anyway, he, er, he…got into a bit o' debt…'

'I've noticed he tends ter do that.'

'Now, if he'd just told us we'd 'ave helped him out- I mean, he's fam-i-ly. We stick together. But he didn't. Instead he got into our savings- mine, me Mam's, me Dad's, even Grandad's…got hold of about three thousand quid in total. Made off with it.'

'Ah.'

'And if he'd only just _asked_ , we wouldn't have begrudged him it- what made it worse was that we confronted him with it, and he denied it. And we all knew he'd done it. Grandad saw him and all- he was devastated. Shifty was always his favourite. Well, you can imagine, trustin' him after that…

Martina nods. Makes sense. She's not sure she should fully believe Joey's side of it- being, as he is, Joey Boswell, but it's so utterly _Shifty_ , so utterly believable that she can't help but take his word for it.

'I know the feelin', yeah. I couldn't trust 'im either. That's why I got out.'

'How'd you finally manage it, then? It took a lot of effort for us to bar 'im from the house. He kept springin' back like a yo-yo.'

She snickers at the analogy, because it's true, so very true, and she realises at the same monent that she's leaving the sober state behind, and that yet _another_ pair of fresh drinks have appeared on the counter for them.

'It was 'ard,' she says, because it was, and because she's finding it hard to remember big words all of a sudden. 'I walked out in the end. Found meself a new flat. And boy did 'e kick up a fuss.'

'Plead with you to come back, did he?'

'In between the shoutin'. He was really quite surprised, you know, when he realised all me clothes were gone from the wardrobe.'

A chortle. 'I wish I'd been there.'

'Hmm.' Martina's feeling just the tiniest bit woozy. 'He really didn't wanna let go. It was… _hard_ ,' she wishes she had some synonyms on hand, 'to get over.'

'But you did.'

'Suppose.' There's a pause, and Martina concentrates on looking at her reflection in her wine.

'It's admirable, that,' Joey says out of the blue. She turns to look at him full on.

'What is?'

'The way you can carry on. The fact that you had the strength to do that, and to pick yourself up the way you have.'

Martina scoffs- he doesn't know what he's saying. He can see her mask, that's all. She doesn't feel strong, not a bit of it, and she expresses this sentiment to him.

'Oh, but you are, sweetheart, even if you can't see it. I mean, look at the way you go on down the DHSS.'

'DSS,' Martina corrects, but he takes no notice. No-one does.

'Those bastards are always puttin' you down, and you rise above it, never let it get to you…'

She rolls her eyes.

'I've always admired you for that, you know.' He's looking straight into her eyes as he says this, the most serious expression she thinks she's ever seen him wear adorning his face. It's a bit unnerving. She takes another swig of her drink.

' _Well_ ,' she says, feeling a warm buzz as the liquor kicks in, 'I've always admired _you_ for…' She pauses, puts one finger on her lips. She can't think of anything.

'For my charm? For my amazin' handsomeness? For my great, _unique_ ability to…'

'No, no. No, no.' She moves the finger from her lips to his. 'Nothin' like that.'

He grins. 'For what, then?'

She downs the rest of her glass, hums and tries to concentrate. What _does_ she admire him for? Is there even anything? She needs to say something, it's rude not to finish the thought, but how can she concentrate at all, she thinks, when she's feeling unexplainably dizzy? _Too much wine. Far too much wine. How many now? Four? Five? Six?_ She can't normally handle more than two.

'Your…your… _gall_ ,' Martina finishes with relish.

He raises his eyebrows in amusement. 'My gall, you say? What's that when it's at home?'

'Don't 'ave a filthy mind,' she says reproachfully, wondering why the sentence sounds so unwieldy, 'I mean yer _nerve_. You've got a lot o' that.'

'So you're sayin' I'm brave?'

'No, I'm sayin' you've got _nerve_.'

'Yeah,' he finishes off his beverage, shoves the glass aside, leans in closer, 'but what does that _mean,_ exactly?'

'It _means_ ,' she leans in close as well, smirking, 'that you somehow 'ave the guts ter come out with all that _rubbish_ in front o' me, and you _dare_ think you'll get away with it.' Martina's aiming for a cutting remark, but it doesn't sound as sharp as she'd have liked, because she's slurring her words slightly.

He chuckles at her. 'You're gettin' _tipsy_.'

As he says this, he leans his elbow back, intending to rest it on the counter, misses and nearly falls off the stool. The timing is perfect, and Martina lets a laugh escape her.

'So are _you_.'

'Yeah,' Joey says, 'but I can handle it.'

'And who says I can't?'

'You do,' says Joey, his face suddenly serious again. 'With your eyes. You want to do somethin' reckless, sweetheart- I can see it written all over your face.'

'And what, pray tell, do I wanna do that's so reckless? I'm not reckless! I'm _un…reckless!_ Very, very… un-reckless.'

'Are you just? Then why do you want to kiss me?'

Martina's eyes widen. Where did that even come from?

'I _don't_ want ter kiss you! Mister Boswell! How dare you insin…insin…'

 _Insinuate_ is on the tip of her tongue, but she can't get past the second syllable. And, without fully realising what she's doing, she fairly collapses into him and crashes her mouth against his.

She shouldn't be doing this. She realises this instantly, but she can't stop, doesn't want to, because it's been so long since Shifty, and there hasn't been anyone since, and…

Joey lets her do it, kisses back with a burning intensity and this is so wrong, but it's so good, she thinks maybe someone's poured methylated spirits down her veins and struck a match, because she's burning but without being damaged, but no it's so wrong, and it's Joey Boswell, and just… ugh, _everything…_

It's Joey who stops, and she huffs when he does, because despite the fact she _knows_ it was wrong, she was really enjoying it.

'I told you you wanted to, didn't I?'

Martina can't remember what words are, let alone how to use them. He draws back, laughs at her expression, and she wonders what she looks like to him right now. She's certainly flustered, she knows that much, and there are stars and little Joey Boswells dancing round her head like in a cartoon.

'But the thing is, Martina,' he's moved back in, his breath tickles the skin on her neck, and she shudders, her shoulder coming up automatically, because she's just a little bit ticklish, 'if you don't stop me now, I'd quite like to kiss you again. And I will.'

She should stop him. She knows she should stop him. She should ask him to desist, remind him just who he is, just who _she_ is. But she doesn't want to. Because the instant he mentions kissing her again her lips begin to tingle.

'Not in 'ere,' she whispers, the wine guiding her on. 'Outside.'

Joey's wallet materialises from nowhere, and he crams a great wad of pound notes into the surprised bartender's fist before springing from his seat, taking her hand and pulling her towards the door.

She runs with him willingly, wondering but not caring why all this is so easy to do, noticing, as Joey pulls the door marked 'push' and cackles loudly at his mistake, that people are staring.

They stumble out onto the pavement outside, and the night air is a refreshing cold sting against her flushed skin.

She leans heavily against him, and he against her, and then they both realise they're going to fall over if they do this, and they lean against the wall instead. They're facing each other, and Joey's arm is around her, his hand on the small of her back.

' _Mister_ Boswell,' she says, ' _Joey…'_

It's sort of funny calling him by his first name, and she giggles drunkenly, and then she can't remember what she was going to say, because he's pulling her in and kissing her again and all coherent thought becomes erased from her brain.

* * *

When Martina wakes up, two things are wrong. For one, she has a splitting headache. And for the other, Joey Boswell is sitting on her dressing table tying up his shoes.

She lies there listlessly for a moment, watching him through a haze of semi-conscious fascination. He bites his tongue while he's doing the knots, flexes his foot in front of him when he's done, and the little habits interest her still half-asleep mind. He looks nice in the morning light. It catches on his hair, highlights the sandy bits in the brown, and ah yes, she thinks, it looks much better natural than when it was almost white-blond.

And then her brain starts to kick in.

_Hang on a minute here._

Joey Boswell's inside her house. That's not normal. Last night comes back to her in shreds and snippets, filling her with horror as she remembers how drunk she got.

Her eyes widen. She struggles into a sitting position, ignoring the hammers that seem to be attacking her head and the almost overwhelming nausea that comes on as she moves, because she's got a crisis far more important than that to deal with here.

He notices her looking at him.

'Greetings!' He's smiling at her- _no, don't you smile at me, Joey Boswell. You shouldn't be here._ 'Hung over? I know I am.'

Two thoughts come at once. How can he be so cheery if he feels even slightly like she does now? And how can he be so blithe, given everything that's just happened? Doesn't he have the decency to feel remorseful, to even try to make excuses for himself?

But all she says is 'yeah.'

'Poor dear girl.' He crosses the room, leans over the bed and kisses her forehead twice, then her lips once. And again she wants to reprimand him, to demand some sort of explanation for whatever it was that went on between them, to tell him to get out. And again she doesn't.

'D'you want me to find you some aspirin?'

'No. I'll find it meself later.'

'Oh, okay,' he says.

An awkward silence descends.

'Well, then,' Joey wrings his hands.

'Yeah,' says Martina.

'I'd better be headin' off then,' he tells her. 'D'you want me to give you a lift to work?'

'No,' Martina says.

'Oh. Okay,' he says.

And leaves.

* * *

They're not going to talk about it. Martina will make sure of that. It was a one-off that shouldn't have happened, as far as she's concerned, and as such, she's going to treat the entire incident like a distant hallucination, something that wasn't real in the first place.

It meant nothing. She's still getting over Shifty, and he his wife, in a way, and it was a great big terrible mistake, and they were drunk- very, _very_ drunk, and it didn't mean anything _at all,_ so he can just forget about any repeat incidents.

She can't just take up on the rebound with Joey Boswell. That's a catastrophe waiting to happen, that is.

And Martina's learned her lesson about catastrophes. Stay away from them.

Stick to the plan. No-one's going to play her for a fool again, she said. And she means to keep that resolution forever.

So when he strides in with his usual cry of 'Greetings!' she gives him the typical cold stare, and enquires what Mister Boswell wants today.

'Well, as you may or may not be aware…' oh, good, he's already revving up to a speech, 'during our somewhat eventful lives, we have collected around us rather a large collection of valuable and unusual possessions…'

Martina finds it just as easy as usual to say _oh, you mean_ and then rattle off a long list of increasingly outlandish valuables. She supposes some things never change, no matter how much the world changes around you. And so far, so good. He's not even mentioning the _incident_.

'You got it, sweetheart. You got it. And as you know, in the past we utilised the services of a guard dog to protect our home and our family's prizes…'

'You mean the one who used to bring me notes in 'is mouth about claimin' fer better dog meat?'

'One and the same. And as you are most likely aware, since the tragic day our Mongy was run over, our fam-i-ly and home have been without the protection we so desperately require…'

'Er, would you be so kind as to get ter the point, Mister Boswell? Only we do close in three hours, you know, and there are other desperadoes 'ere waitin' for their turn, so they can come up 'ere and whine about their pathetic little problems.'

'The point is,' Joey begins, and then stops there.

Martina, getting fed up, clenches her fist and steels her face. ' _Go on._ The dramatic pause isn't doin' anythin' to aid yer cause- it's just makin' me angry. And if you keep on angerin' me, you will _not_ be gettin' a form.'

Joey crosses one leg over the other, wraps his hands around his knee.

'The point is,' and he stops again, veering off in a different direction, 'are you cross with me?'

She has to take a deep breath to stop herself throttling him. Of course she's cross, what kind of question is that? How could she not be, when he's strategically infuriating her, refusing to just come out with whatever he wants?

'I think that goes without sayin', Mister Boswell. _Point. Now._ '

'Don't you want to hear my beautifully crafted speech, then?'

'Mister Boswell, if I 'ad my way, I wouldn't be hearin' anythin' from you- _ever again_. Your speeches make me sick to me stomach- as does the rest o' you.'

'Harsh words, even for you. Look, the point is, well…' he twiddles his thumbs, 'really, I just wanted to talk to you. After last night, and all.'

'There's nothin' ter talk about. I want ter forget about that. Now kindly remember that this is the DH- the DSS, Mister Boswell. We deal with _business_ matters, and I would appreciate it if you would limit yer conversation ter _business matters_ from now on.' She keeps her voice even and slow, making sure she gets her point across concisely.

His forehead creases.

'Such a shame, sweetheart. Such a shame. I thought we were gettin' a nice little friendship off the ground there.'

 _'Friendship_?' Martina spits. 'Since when did people get their 'friends' drunk, and…'

'I didn't _get_ you drunk,' Joey chuckles. 'We both just…ended up in that state. We were merely the victims of circumstance.'

Martina tuts, but she can't be bothered to point out that constantly buying drinks, in her book, doesn't count as being a victim of circumstance.

'Look, the other night-'

'The other night, Mister Boswell, didn't 'appen. It doesn't exist.'

Joey looks more than mildly disappointed, but rallies nonetheless. 'S'pose you're right, sweetheart. Mustn't let it get in the way of our friendship.'

What friendship? _There is no friendship_. She hates him. Always has. And just because she got on so well with him on the night-that-didn't-happen, just because of the kiss, just because they- well, it doesn't mean she feels anything at all in terms of anything.

She purses her lips. 'I don't make friends with Boswells.'

* * *

It's true. She doesn't. What's more, she never will.

And from now on, she will avoid Joey Boswell as much as is humanly possible.

It's hard to avoid someone, though, when they're so good at finding you.

Martina leaves her flat the next morning in a hurry- she's overslept, and her bus will leave any minute. She pulls the door shut with ferocious force- it always sticks, it's not in proper working order, much like the rest of her flat- wrestles the key out of the lock and turns, intent on hurrying down the stairs and towards the street.

When she sees Joey Boswell leaning on the staircase she nearly falls over backwards.

'What do you think you're doing, Mister Boswell?' she demands.

'Greetings!' He throws up his hands, grinning from ear to ear.

'Enough o' that. I _said_ what are you doin' 'ere?'

'Well, unless I'm mistaken, I'm waitin' for you, sweetheart. Thought you might appreciate a lift to work.'

'I told yer. I don't want ter talk to you.' She pushes past him and starts down the stairs. The clack of shoes on metal indicates he's following. She picks up her pace, her heel catches on a stray hole and Martina nearly goes tumbling forward. Her heart skips a beat, a sudden rush of adrenaline hitting her, and then something grabs hold of her arm, yanks her backwards and holds her steady.

'Careful, there, sunshine. Don't want to go head-first into the concrete, do we? It'd ruin that pretty face of yours.'

'You can let go now, Mister Boswell.'

He sighs, doing so, leaning back against the railing again. 'Look, the other night wasn't intentional, sweetheart, and I'm _sorry._ Okay? I'm sorry if I stepped out of line- I never meant for it to go that far.'

Martina doesn't remember hearing him sound this sincere before. She wants to be irrational, ask why he's sorry, is she not good enough for him now, or something, even when she wants him to be remorseful. That's what women normally do when they're scorned. That's the sort of thing she feels she should do, given the circumstances. She shouldn't just accept this strange apology, she shouldn't be making it easy for Joey Boswell, letting him think he's gotten away with it.

But she doesn't say any of that. In fact, she makes no comment at all.

'And I meant what I said yesterday.' He lightly touches her shoulder. 'I do want to be your friend.'

Martina feels oddly touched, and a strange feeling overcomes her for just a moment- a strange, horrible feeling. For a moment she actually _likes_ him for saying this, actually _wants_ to be friends with him. But the feeling lasts less than a split second, just a flicker, a spark that ignites when you light a match but don't do it properly and then instantly sputters out, and she hardens her face, stares him down.

'And _I_ meant what _I_ said. I don't make friends with Boswells.'

'Times change, sweetheart. Times change. What's to say I'm the same Joey Boswell you loathed so ardently in the past?'

'That little speech fer one. You're _no different_ at all. All the little games you play, all that rubbish you spout, all that _arrogance…_ ' But even as she lists item after item, her mind's playing back to her all the ways he _has_ changed- despite all the little teases and cheeky grins of old, there is, overall, a more serious quality to him, a more sensitive air. She thinks about the way he'd talked to her the other night, before they got too drunk to be serious anymore, and the way he'd talked about his ex-wife and son, and the way he'd actually _sold_ his flashy gear for the sake of the child he loved. He _has_ grown-up, she realises, if only just a little bit, but this frightens her even more than an unchanged Joey Boswell would in many ways. And she doesn't know what to do about it.

What she _wants_ to do is get away from here before she even has to think about one ounce more. She'd rush down the stairs right now, only he's standing in her way.

'All that frostiness,' Joey counters, 'all that stubbornness…well, even if we haven't changed, what's to say we couldn't get used to each other as we are, eh?' He smiles warmly.

'I can't imagine why you'd want to, or what'd make you think I'm the least bit interested,' she growls, impatiently looking down her at her watch. Her eyes bug right out of her head when she notices the time.

'And now I've missed me bus because o' you!'

'Have no fear. I have alternative methods of transport at my disposal, and you are more than welcome to make use of them.'

'You mean yer _Jaguar_?' she spits. 'The famous, lent-to-you-but-not Jaguar?'

'One and the same.'

'So much fer all me prayers that somehow it'd fall ter bits and you'd have to take public transport like everyone else.'

'Well before that disaster befalls me, I might as well make the most of it and travel in style.'

'Go ahead,' Martina says. 'I'm goin' ter use _honest_ methods.' She pushes him, hard, and as he stumbles against the railing she makes use of her opportunity and escapes past him, down the stairs and onto the footpath.

It's another half an hour 'til the next bus, according to the timetable in her handbag, so Martina decides she might as well walk. It can't be _that_ far- it doesn't look it when she's riding to work.

So she starts walking.

Ten steps, then twenty, then more. She's uncomfortable in her shoes- three-inch heels aren't exactly stilettos, but they still can't be called 'walking shoes' either, and already she's beginning to regret this.

The gentle rumble of an engine sounds, building up in a crescendo 'til it's right upon her, a sleek car gliding along the side of the road and coming to rest a few feet in front of her. Joey winds down the window and leans out.

'Get in the car, sweetheart. You're being silly.'

She huffs indignantly, keeps on walking without looking. The Jaguar trundles along beside her, matching her pace.

'Go _away.'_

'So let me get this straight,' there's a laugh in his voice, which makes her temper rise. 'You're gonna walk three miles wearin' _those_ shoes? Even you can't be _that_ stubborn.'

She gives him a look which she hopes says _watch me_ , turns away, keeps on down the path, not checking to see if the car is still following her.

She walks the whole three miles, shoes and all, just to spite him. The heel comes off the left one and her feet are blistered and raw. She's fifteen minutes late for work. And on top of all that, she's got a splitting headache.

But it's better than letting Joey Boswell think he's won.

That'll teach him.

* * *

The next day, the Jag's waiting for her again. She pushes straight past him without a word.

'Goin' through all that again, are you?' he chuckles.

Her shoulders tense. She looks determinedly ahead at the path.

_I've lived through this before._

But it seems longer than it did yesterday, and her heels still throb from where the skin's rubbed away. She's wearing flatter shoes today, but the memory of yesterday still makes the walk look daunting.

With a look of cross resignation, she gets in the car.

Joey wears a smug expression all the way to the DSS.

* * *

'And where were you this mornin'?' Martina raises one eyebrow.

'Missin' me that badly, were you?'

Martina folds her hands and rests them on her clipboard. 'You _know_ the rules, Mister Boswell. You sign-on at the time you are allocated, or you do _not_ receive yer giro. If you're gettin' somethin' for nothin', you _obey the rules,_ you hear?'

Joey laughs, light and ringing. 'If that's the excuse you want to use, sweetheart, to cover up the fact you missed me.'

She shakes her head.

It's been two weeks now. A whole fortnight since the incident-that-wasn't (or, if you want to get technical, the incident-that-was-but-she'll-say-wasn't-even-thoug h-it-was), and Martina and Joey have settled into a strange sort of alliance- they speak, they joke with each other, much like they always have, Joey tries to pull one over on her every time he comes up with a new scheme, and she deflects his attempts to leave with every form in the building, as always.

But every now and then they have these… _moments_ \- strange moments where they'll suddenly stop, mid-battle, they'll look at each other, or one of them will say something oddly profound, and suddenly they'll be looking right into each other's cores, through their masks, seeing each other's hurts and fears and wants. It unsettles Martina no end, and at the same time, in a strange sort of way, she likes it. She can't exactly explain how, or why, but she does. Their encounters inside the DSS are much more interesting. Their encounters outside it- because, yes, there have been more, seemingly coincidental meetings by cash-point machines or in the park or in other such places- are becoming more pleasantly anticipated. She almost lets herself think she looks forward to them.

 _Almost_ , but she stops herself just before crossing that line into the _definite_ realm.

Sometimes, Martina thinks, she'd like to just let herself come out and say it- Joey Boswell is becoming her _friend_. But she doesn't have friends, not many- she won't get close to too many people, not after all the countless figures from her past who've let her down- and anyway, she doesn't make friends with Boswells. So no matter how hard Joey tries to improve her opinion of him, no matter how much she finds herself smiling and teasing back, she draws a line and stays behind it, remains reserved when she can, turns the conversation back to Social Security matters if it starts to go in a dangerous direction.

'And what's yer demand this time?' she asks. ' _Another_ new bed for yer Grandad? He seems to be goin' through a lot o' those lately- funny, considerin' he isn't _actually incontinent_.'

'Well, he wasn't, years ago, but who's to say he isn't now?'

'Fer one thing, Mister Boswell, it's only been three years since you stopped comin' 'ere, and besides, your Billy's still been comin' down every now and then. And despite all the little problems 'e's been tryin' ter fob me off with, the list of which could stretch around the _world_ , he…'

'He can't hold a candle to _my_ way of elaboration' on the fam-i-ly's issues, can he?' Joey interrupts before she can get to the bit about never hearing about Grandad's situation getting worse, if indeed it was all that bad in the first place, which she doubts. 'Well, he's just a baby lad, isn't he? Hasn't lived- hasn't had enough experience to be brilliant yet.'

'He's _twenty-five_ \- he's not a baby. And you're not as 'brilliant' as you think, Mister Boswell.'

'So you say, sweetheart,' Joey grins, 'so you say.'

'Yer claim?' Martina reminds him.

'Just a small cheque to tide me over,' Joey says, 'just to keep me on my feet.'

'And wouldn't you be able to stand on yer own two feet anyway now? If you've got enough money ter replace yer gold watch, you've got enough to tide you over.'

Joey opens his mouth but she cuts to the chase. 'I _saw_ yer, Mister Boswell. I _saw_ you comin' out o' the jeweller's. I can see the watch now.' She nods smugly, and Joey moves his left hand under the desk and laughs sheepishly.

'I may have done well…in me own way…on the one-off occasion…'

' _One-off,_ ' Martina rolls her eyes. 'Oh, go on. What d'you want this so-called 'small cheque' for?'

'Well, as you know, since I've been divorced, I've had alimony payments to think of…'

'Er, we gave you a cheque fer yer alimony the other day!'

'Yeah, _but_ ,' Joey begins, 'it came to a bit extra this time. A few extra expenses.'

Martina looks at him. 'Why?'

' _We-ell,_ ' Joey says, and then his voice softens again, and Martina senses one of those strange, emotional shifts in the conversation. 'It was Oscar's birthday last week. I don't know where he is, what he wants or anythin'. I can't even phone him. I sent him a cheque- well, I had to send it through Roxy, didn't I? I don't know if it'll even get to him…'

He stares off into the distance, and Martina puts her hand over his. She's not one for falling for sob-stories, has never, _will_ never be moved by Joey's pathetic attempts to move her to tears. But this isn't a pathetic attempt to move her to tears, or a forced sob-story. This is real. And she _actually_ feels sympathy for him.

'I see.'

'I don't want to think that Roxy's pocketed it- I'd like to think he's got it, but I just don't know.'

'I see,' she says again. She says that a lot, she notices. She absently considers learning another back-channelling phrase just for some variety.

'I can't help thinkin' it's the sort o' thing she'd do,' Joey goes on. 'If only to get back at me.'

'Sounds like the sort o' thing Shifty'd do,' Martina says ruefully, 'although 'e'd probably blame 'is childhood, and the fact that…'

'His mother was a friendly soul so she was,' they mimic in sync.

Martina sighs. 'He tried to blame everythin' on 'is childhood. All the things he stole, the trouble he got into…'

'He was doin' the same when he stayed at ours. You know, the first day he was with us he brought Grandad a whole heap o' pressies- and, mind you, he'd just come out o' prison, he had no money at all.'

'He nicked them, then.' She can imagine.

'He brought us a receipt, kept _insisting_ it was all paid for- but he'd swapped the price tags over, gotten the whole lot for practically nothin'.'

Martina rolls her eyes. So like him.

'I suppose it does affect you, though, really,' she sighs.

'What does?'

'Yer childhood. I mean look at you- you 'ad the luxury of a large family, all clutchin' each other and dotin' on one another and you think you're entitled to every luxury you can get yer 'ands on…'

'What you say has a ring of truth to it, sweetheart- I _was_ blessed with a loving, united fam-i-ly, but that doesn't necessarily mean…'

'I suppose,' Martina's off in her own world, not paying attention to whatever family fairy tale he's working towards, 'if you follow that theory, it does explain a lot. My childhood was _miserable_ \- I had one parent who was a gambler, one who cared about nothin'- and neither of them cared about _me_ , I 'ad an alcoholic brother who's _still_ on the run for robbin' a brewery and for accumulatin' a lot o' debts- a bad influence, but I loved 'im, all the same, and then he left- I suppose all that's why my life's so hopeless. Why _I'm_ so hopeless.'

The beam on Joey's face brought about by talking about his family fades. 'You're not _hopeless_ , sweetheart! Don't think that!'

She laughs morbidly. 'Oh, you think, do you? I've been workin' in the same job since I was twenty, spendin' me life fendin' off scroungers and never expandin' me mind past the ability to shout _next_ , I've 'ad a series of 'opeless relationships- most notably _Shifty_ , o' course- I'm thirty-five years old and have nothin' to show for me life at all.'

'And you sound like you're thinkin' about givin' up, sweetheart. You shouldn't do that. You're a strong woman, Martina. Fight back with everythin' you've got. You know those things in your head called _dreams_? Follow the bastards 'til they come true.'

Martina growls under her breath. Another poetic pep talk from Joey Boswell, grand orator extraordinaire. 'I don't 'ave dreams.'

'Pity, sweetheart. Such a pretty head, it should be filled with pretty thoughts, you know.'

'Don't start, Mister Boswell. I can't stand those sorts o' false compliments, just so you can get what you want.'

He looks wounded, and she can't tell if he really is or not. It's getting harder and harder to tell these days. He confounds her.

'It wasn't a false compliment, sunshine. I meant it. You really _are_ very beautiful. I've always thought so.'

Martina just shakes her head.

'I have dreams,' Joey sighs, staring at the ceiling. 'I always had the dream of a white house in Gateacre- a lawn and a driveway and Roxy wavin' me goodbye in a silk dressing gown…' he trails off. 'I thought I'd come close to gettin' it, you know- I had Roxy, and I thought that meant I was gonna be happy, have a happy life with her...turns out that wasn't gonna happen.'

'Happy isn't real, Mister Boswell. Someone made it up one day to stop us complainin'.'

'I was happy when it was just us. The fam-i-ly, I mean. When we were all together, no worries, just…'

'Unity and loyalty?'

'Precisely.'

'You were lucky, Mister Boswell. Most of us don't 'ave that.'

'Well,' he pulls a gold pen out of his pocket, fiddles with it, 'I suppose I was, in many ways.' He leans forward, pulling his hand out from under hers, wraps it round her wrist instead, 'but I do think happiness is real. And I think you should too.'

Martina swallows. Since he's come back, Joey has suddenly developed the ability to play havoc with her emotions, manipulate them, actually make her feel like she's going to cry. She sighs, forces herself not to show even a flicker of emotion, and makes sure that when she replies to him, it's with dignity and composure.

* * *

'And, of course, what you have to realise, sweetheart, is that when our Billy said…'

'OI!'

Joey is cut off mid-flow. Martina can't even remember how they got round to talking about his Billy- the conversation has just gone on and on, and morphed and morphed and morphed, subjects seamlessly melting into one another. And, surprisingly, it's been very, well… _relaxing,_ a sort of soothing tonic, though she can't think why, when Joey Boswell always has been the man to rile her up most.

It's only now the angry man has come up behind Joey, red-faced and looking ready for a shout that she remembers she probably should have been working instead of chatting. How long has all this gone on anyway?

'Have you two finished cosying up _yet?_ Only this desk has been occupied for _ages_ , and the queue's gettin' longer, and the other two _still_ haven't called my number- AND IN A MINUTE THE PUBS'LL BE CLOSED, SO HURRY UP AND GET TO ME, WILL YOU?'

'YEAH!' yells another man from his chair, 'it takes twice as long when the numbers are bein' called two at a time instead of three! I got here at one-thirty, I did! _One-thirty!_ Before that bastard,' he gestures rudely in Joey's direction, 'came struttin' in 'ere, and I still ain't been seen!'

Martina rolls her eyes, makes a face at Joey. _You'd better go_ , she tells him, without actually saying the words aloud.

 _If I must, dear lady,_ he replies, without speaking aloud either.

Martina wonders when they graduated to a stage where they could know exactly what the other was saying just by clocking the expression on their face. Are they both that transparent? Or has it just evolved from a very long association, of years and years of the same sorts of little games, the same conversations and facial expressions rehashed so it's easy to tell tease from flattery from sarcasm from serious no-nonsense _you're not getting a form?_ Oh, she can't tell anything other than superficial things, can only predict the teases- the strange, serious Joey Boswell she knows nothing about, can't understand at all, but even so, the amount of insight she does have unnerves her. She shudders. Doesn't bear thinking about.

Joey pushes his chair out, its legs squealing as they scrape against the floor, and gives a mock-courteous nod to both the antagonising men. 'If you can exercise just a smidgeon more patience and bear with me, gentlemen, I will be out of your way directly.'

He reaches back through the partition, takes Martina's hand and kisses it. He's done that once or twice before, but not for years and years. Not since she'd told him the DHSS wouldn't pay for his dog's operation- so long ago now that she'd forgotten.

And then he sweeps out- his swagger really is impressive, when he wants it to be, he's been practising and perfecting what he thinks of as his 'elegant style' for many a year- and the first of the two pushy clients slams himself into the chair with a force equally impressive as Joey's stride.

'About _time_ , pal,' he spits in Joey's general direction, even though he's already gone. 'Now, you, _where the hell's me bloody money?_ '

Martina lets her eyes do a full 360. She's been played this record so many times.

As she rummages through her rolodex for the man's card, she glances up at the clock and nearly falls right out of her chair. She's been talking to Joey for nearly an _hour_. No wonder the clients are all angry.

Not good. Not good at all.

She resolves to make more of an effort to tone this strange 'friendship' down before it gets any more out of control.

* * *

'Greetings!'

Martina gets up off the park bench and walks off in the opposite direction. Joey runs after her.

'You all right, sweetheart?'

'What are you doin'?' she demands, not looking at him.

'Just happened to be passin' by, and I ran into you- by chance, of course,' he says, clearly lying. 'Just thought I'd see how you were.'

'Well, kindly _stop_ runnin' into me in future,' she replies, picks up her pace and leaves him standing there.

* * *

There have been lots of such incidents since _that night,_ and Martina smiles every time they occur, then quickly reprimands herself. She's not going to let him into her life. It's not going to happen. That incident in the DSS had been a wakeup call. If she could lose her faculties for an entire hour when there was important work to be done, then she could easily lose more of them, and she could wind up in either another Shifty situation or in a position where Joey's gently manipulating her just to get what he wants from the state.

So whenever he runs into her,( _by chance, of course_ , he says every time, clearly lying) and she doesn't know what his motives are, (frankly, she doesn't want to), she makes sure to send him on his way, pronto.

The next time really _is_ 'by chance', though. And it's _she_ who runs into _him_.

She pops into a very cheap and disgusting café around four in the afternoon- too early for dinner, really, and she's not really in the mood for it. She knows from experience that the placemats on the table probably taste better than the food here, but the stove in her flat's packed it in again, and she can't afford to eat anywhere fancy if she wants to be able to afford to get it fixed.

And the first person she sees is Joey Boswell, sitting at a wobbly table, jacket slung over his chair, elbow in his plate and not noticing, staring off into space. He looks like someone's put him in a cocktail shaker and shaken him up, and her first reaction is to worry about him.

Something in her stomach flutters unpleasantly to see him like this. She doesn't want to see him looking upset. She wants him to be how he was, all wall-to-wall smiles and pathetic jokes and boasts, wants to chase away this depression that's weighing him down.

_No, no, I don't. He's nothin' ter do with me. I'm going to just go. Just leave, right now. It's none o' my business anyway._

She pulls up a chair from a neighbouring table, comes and sits beside him.

_Er, body? Are you at all connected to me brain?_

'Don't you normally have dinner with your united family?' She holds onto the hope that the taunt will stir him out of this state.

Joey's eyes are hollow and empty. 'Didn't feel like it. Sometimes I don't, you know. They can get a bit crowdin', occasionally. Well, you know.'

'No, I don't.'

'Oh,' Joey looks nonplussed.

'I think I can get at what you mean, though,' Martina amends hastily. 'What's upset you, then? Is it Roxy again?'

'No, it's not Roxy. I just told you, didn't I? It's me family.'

'Yer Grandad's incontinence playin' up again?' she teases, but he gives her a look that clearly says he's not in the mood, and the vicious smirk fades from her face. 'Sorry.'

'I got angry with them,' he says, and then raises his eyebrows at her to indicate the seriousness of this statement. 'I _never_ get angry with them- not like this.'

'Oh.'

'I…' he clenches and unclenches his fists, 'I threatened to leave home.'

That sounds so unlike him Martina has to do a double-take, make sure she's heard properly. 'Why?'

'It just all got too much- Adrian came over for dinner, and he and Billy had been arguin' all evenin'- can't even remember what _about_ , now, and they just wouldn't stop, not even when I told 'em to cut it, and me Mam had been goin' on for hours about what a success Adrian'd made of himself, how he had a stable relationship and children and how she wished Billy and I'd do the same, and then she started on me whole relationship with Roxy, about how she used the fact that I was attached to Oscar to get me to do things for her all the time…' he pauses for breath.

Martina makes a humming noise to indicate she's listening.

'And you know I've been a bit tense lately about that- what with Oscar's birthday, I especially miss him now- and I just got fed up with hearin' it,started shoutin' at her, and I feel so guilty, after all she's done for me…'

He pauses, but she senses he's not finished yet. She waits.

'I told her…' he puts his fist to his mouth- he can't get it out. He tries again. 'I told her she ruined my marriage. That it was all her fault.'

'You didn't,' she mutters.

'I shouldn't have. I didn't mean it- o' course I didn't- and it _wasn't_ \- I mean, Roxy hated my family, hated the fact that I always spent time with me Mam, but _she_ was still the one who had an affair, who kicked me out, it was nothin' to do with Mam…I feel so terrible, Martina. She looked so _hurt_. And then me brothers turned on me, stood up for me Mam- well, of course they would, they're Boswells after all…'

'Of course…'

'And we stick together. In retrospect I'm proud of them- but I shouted at the lot of them, told them it was all their faults, hence it was all their faults I could no longer see me son, and then I stormed out.'

He puts his head in his hands.

Martina takes in his form, sharp angles of his shoulders betraying all the tension, all the stress, and without really registering what she's doing she brushes her hand through his hair.

He raises his head, gives her a weak smile. 'I just can't believe I did that to me own family. It's just…it was so hard to keep me mouth shut, I was so angry and they were doin' my 'ead in- but I'd never mean it. They mean the _world_ to me, sweetheart. And the thing is, even if they _had_ been responsible for me marriage goin' bust, I'd still love them. I'd never really want to leave them…'

'Well, I know it's 'ard, I've been there,' she says, moving closer to him, 'you can't ever really hate them, no matter what they do.' She thinks of her own brother. She still misses him even now, even though he broke her heart by disappearing, with no explanation, leaving her to read _in the papers_ that he was wanted and on the run. He left her, bleeding and broken, his cruel act of heartbreaking setting a benchmark for Shifty and most others in her life to aspire to. She hates him for doing that, but at the same time she loves him 'til it aches.

That's why she's always resented Joey's big, loving family unit so much. They have what she wants, what she used to have and lost. She had one brother whom she loved to bits and pieces, who was terrible for her, possibly the worst influence a child could have- got her drunk when she was _nine_ , for goodness' sake, but who loved her in a way her parents never did- and then one day just up and ran off and left her without anyone, and she now hasn't seen him for fifteen years. And Joey has _three_ brothers and a sister, and they all love each other and gather round in their sickening unity, rubbing it in her face.

She supposes, now his words have brought Roger up again in her mind, Martina should probably start feeling those familiar glimmers of disdain, of jealousy hidden under practical excuses, like the fact that they cheat the Social Security, but she can't really feel any of that just now. She doesn't feel jealous at this exact moment. She isn't even getting the urge to gloat that at last the little Boswell-clan-dream-thing has collapsed for Joey, if only for a few minutes (because she knows he'll have sorted it out by tomorrow morning, if it even takes _that_ long). She just wants to sympathise, to make him feel better.

It's not like her at all. She likes to make people hurt, out of some twisted, misguided belief that that'll somehow soothe her own sores. She doesn't go comforting people.

But that's what she wants to do.

'Is this about your alcoholic?' Joey asks, picking up his fork and examining the prongs as he does.

'I'm surprised you remember me mentionin' that.'

'You happen to be very dear to me, sweetheart. I remember a lot of things you say.'

'But your brain just _happens_ ter bypass the important things, like yer allocated time ter sign on?'

He gives a half-hearted chuckle, still playing with his fork. 'You said he was wanted for debts or robbery or somethin'.'

'That's right.' She doesn't really want to elaborate, but she adds a little more for the sake of it. 'He vanished one mornin'. I was devastated.'

'When was that?'

'Me twentieth birthday.'

Joey makes a horrified noise. 'Aw, _hey_. Really _?'_

'Yes, really, Mister Boswell. I'm no good at craftin' stories the way you are.'

'Puts my situation in the shade, doesn't it?

A laugh rumbles in the back of her throat. 'It does, yeah.'

'And here I am goin' on because I argued with my brothers and me Mam.' Joey looks up at her, sadness in his eyes, but also a strange glint of something she can't name. 'I may 'ave said it before, but it truly _is_ amazin' the way you pick yourself up after things like that. You'll have to teach me how to do that.'

He wraps his hand around hers, and she squeezes it. They don't move for about ten minutes. Joey rests his head against her shoulder.

'Are you gonna get yer elbow out o' yer food?' Martina says at length. 'You've got gravy all over yer sleeve.'

Joey looks down in surprise, realises what she's said is true. What's worse, he's been slouching- there's now disgustingly congealed brown liquid going from his elbow right down to his cuff.

'Ugh,' he mutters, shaking his arm to try and get some of it off. Droplets splatter onto Martina's blouse, and she yelps.

'Oi!'

And for the first time this evening, Joey laughs.

* * *

The warning bells only start to sound in Martina's head when they part, when she's walking off home. She's supposed to be keeping her distance from him- she's supposed to be on her guard, not running to wipe his nose if she sees him looking sad. Her built-in warning system is getting too slow.

The next three times he comes down to the Social Security she refuses to smile at him. She keeps her tone acerbic, her facial expressions hard. She will talk only about business- after all, that's all she's supposed to be doing.

She slams forms down, doesn't meet his eye, taps her pen on the counter if he tries to linger.

Joey leaves looking mildly annoyed.

* * *

It occurs to Martina she's giving Joey Boswell mixed signals.

She doesn't like that.

She isn't a mixed signal person. She's always been a very straightforward person, a very say-what-you-think and mean-what-you-say type of person, and yet she's been messing around, sometimes being kind, warm, friendly, and at other times being cold and emotionless. What's she going to make Joey think if she keeps on like this? What's she making herself think? She should pick one- cold or nice- and stick to it, really, that's what she should do.

Trouble is, that's what she's been _trying_ to do for nearly a month, and it's proving difficult. She's been _trying_ to be consistently frosty, but fate seems to have other plans, is starting to throw other things into the mix and setting her completely off-balance.

A strange thing comes over her as she looks at him these days. Since he's come back, something has changed. She looks forward to his visits more than ever, feels pleased when she sees him waiting for her. She enjoys spending time with him, and it makes her feel that much better to know that she has someone to talk to, someone who understands.

But at the same time this terrifies her. She has now come to think of Joey Boswell as a 'friend' -something she would have sniffed at years ago, but no matter, that isn't the issue here. And the issue isn't what went on between them that other night, either, because they don't discuss that. They don't dwell on that mistake, they just talk about other things, are each other's confidantes, as opposed to…other things.

The issue is that she's beginning to show unmistakeable symptoms of a disease she doesn't want to get, ever again. She's beginning to _care_ about him, to worry when he seems miserable, to like him. These, she understands, are _feelings_ \- they are things that can't be trusted, because they will inevitably start to rage out of control.

She shouldn't keep talking to him, seeing him, she thinks. These feelings might get stronger- she fears they have already begun. She's balancing on a the brink of a cliff, one one side the solid ground of normality, of singularity and distance from all others, and on the other side the great abyss of emotional turmoil, of attachments that can only bring pain. She should take a step back.

The phone rings. She answers it.

'Greetings! I'm just in the area…'

She can't help it- just the first syllable of _greetings_ and her face has broken out into a smile.

'Seein' as you live 'in the area', that's no surprise.'

'And I wondered if you would, perhaps, do me the honour of lettin' me pick you up from work.'

_Step back. Step back. Step back. Onto the solid ground. Go._

But she accepts his offer.

And so Martina finds herself wobbling.

* * *

'Why don't we get some dinner?' Joey says the instant she does up her seatbelt.

'What for?' she asks warily.

'For food.'

She gives him a filthy look.

'Well, you did say you like it when I feed you, even if it is from grovellin'.' He takes her hand, swings it back and forth between them, 'and I think that might just be what the doctor ordered- some grovellin'. Seein' as how you've got the hump.'

'I've not got 'the hump',' she growls.

'Really, sweetheart? You've been getting' tetchy- 'aven't smiled at me for days now.'

'I don't see any reason why I should, Mister Boswell.'

'When I'm bein' so wonderfully generous to you, sweetheart, you don't see why you should see your way to throwin' me a small bone of friendliness once in a while?'

'Same old Mister Boswell,' she mutters. 'You were always talkin' in poetry back then, too.'

He throws his head back; his ringing laugh fills the car.

She likes the sound, but she doesn't like to admit that she does.

'So why the hump, then?' his face grows serious, once he's let the last remnants of his laugh out.

'I told you, I 'aven't got the hump.'

'You've been givin' me looks so acidic, sweetheart, that they could dissolve through _steel_.'

'Well, what else can I do? Yer claims are gettin' more and more ridiculous, aren't they, Mister Boswell?' It's the best thing she can think of to say- she can hardly admit she's ignoring him because she might possibly be considering loving him a little bit, and she doesn't want that to happen. That's the sort of thing he'd never let her forget.

She hastily changes the subject to one she knows will grab his full attention.

'Why'd you want to eat out again anyway? The great row with yer family still goin' on, is it?'

'Oh, no, don't fret,' he says cheerfully, 'I've sorted it out. I've sorted it out.'

'Go crawlin' back on yer 'ands and knees, did you?'

'Spyin' on me, were you?' Joey teases. 'Is that what DHSS ladies like to do in their spare time-watch their unsuspecting clients in compromising positions?'

'That's a pathetic attempt at humour, Mister Boswell…'

He goes on regardless of her comment. 'Never would have pegged you for that type, sweetheart...'

'Oh, shut up.'

'Mind you, speakin' of compromising positions…'

' _Don't_ …' she warns, before he can bring up _the incident._ That would be straying into territory she wants permanently closed off.

'…you do like to put me in compromisin' positions in the DHSS, don't you, sweetheart? Like to try and trap me, don't you?'

A very risky save, Martina thinks. Unless, of course, that's what he was going to say all along. She's just not sure anymore. She's not sure what to think of Joey Boswell at _all_ anymore. At times she feels she knows everything he's going to say, and then suddenly he says the opposite of what she expects, and everything's thrown off-balance again.

Instead of dwelling on all her confusion, she changes the subject once again.

'Where are we goin', then, fer this 'grovellin' feed'?'

'Oh, how about some quaint little place I know? Good food, good wine, soft lightin', music…'

'I 'ope you're payin' fer this…'

'Naturally.'

'In that case, 'ow about some lovely little _expensive_ place you know?'

'I always go expensive, sweetheart. It ensures you always end up with the best.'

'Oh, good.'

'You agree with me?'

'No,' Martina says, smiling evilly, 'but if I take some sneaky photographs o' how you spend the state's money, I can finally 'ave evidence to 'ave you arrested fer defraudin' the Social Security.'

* * *

The place Joey chooses _is_ quaint, _is_ little, _is_ , without a doubt, very, very expensive. Martina has a minor heart attack when she reads the prices on the menu, then decides she might as well try to have fun while she's here and deliberately picks the most expensive thing she can find, taking careful note of his reaction.

She's not satisfied with it, though. Not so much as a raised eyebrow. Instead, he just smiles, nods at the waiter and then orders a special that she hasn't even noticed which is twice as pricey as hers.

She makes a few more comments about the cost of the evening, and he waves them off with a rather annoying Boswell-ism about the best things in life being expensive. He suggests a wine for them to have with the meal, and she jokingly accuses him first of trying to poison her, then of trying to drug her with something so she'll be easily tricked into signing over the kingdom to him.

He laughs heartily, and she realises that for the past fifteen, maybe twenty minutes they've just been getting along like actual, proper friends.

Strange, considering she keeps reiterating how she doesn't make friends with Boswells.

Strange, considering she'd thought it would be impossible to make a friendship between them work, that she shouldn't really try.

And slightly alarming, considering the fact that how well they're getting on is making her think once again about how she might be accidentally almost falling in love with him, making her think that this feels suspiciously like a date. Except no, it isn't, it's not a date. It's just not.

She doesn't get a chance to really think about it, though, because, while she gazes off into space, her mind starting to drift, Joey's fork creeps over from across the table, captures a piece of squash from her plate and carries it away.

'Oi!'

'I'm merely tastin', sweetheart. Your dish _does_ look appetizing.'

Martina glares. 'Get yer own.'

'I don't need to, do I? Not when you can provide me with a sample.'

'If you _insist_ on bein' me friend, you could at least refrain from stealin' me food.'

Joey grins naughtily, holds his fork up to his mouth and takes small bites of it, eating it very slowly in front of her. 'I must admit, you've got good taste.'

'Oh, _well_ ,' Martina says when he's done, because he's not getting away with _this_ , she won't be beaten, 'two can play at that game, you know.'

And she lunges for his plate with her own fork.

Joey clinks his knife against it, stopping her halfway. 'Oh, no you don't.'

She tuts. 'You hypocrite.'

'Only _I_ may swipe food in that manner,' he says, a cheeky twinkle in his eye. He traces his fork around the plate, pushing it through a lump of something in sauce and holding it up to her lips.

'Here.'

She feels embarrassingly stupid as she lets him feed it to her- it's the sort of soppy romantic thing she's always hated, only no, she has to remember, this isn't a _date_ , there's nothing even slightly _romantic_ about it. They're just friends. Sort of. In a way.

It turns out to be a mushroom he's given her, and it's buttery and just slightly garlicky and seems to melt under her tongue.

'Haven't got bad taste yerself,' she murmurs.

'Consider yourself lucky, sweetheart. I wouldn't part with those mushrooms for anyone else. They are undoubtedly the best part of the dish.'

'What, even better than the…' she looks over at his plate, but they seem to be all the dish consists of. He notices her snooping.

'Ah, yes, there's no meat, sweetheart- I'm a vegetarian, in case you were wondering.'

She wasn't, but this new confession just makes her snort. 'No you're not.'

He looks slightly affronted. 'Yes, I _am_ , sweetheart. I am a firm believer that beef, pork and chicken are all animals, and should be treated as living, feeling creatures and not eaten.'

A very different sort of speech, but a Boswell speech nonetheness. And even more ridiculous than the usual ones, because of the most obvious flaw in it.

'Oh, yeah?' she raises one eyebrow. Oh, she's going to enjoy this. If he hasn't noticed, then she'll be able to gloat forever and ever, point out that for once she's outsmarted him. If he hasn't noticed, he's not even half as clever as she thought. And if he has, she can brand him a blatant hypocrite outright.

'Yeah,' he says, folding his hands and leaning forward. She can't believe he doesn't know what she's going to say next.

'So you wear them instead?'

Both of them look down at his genuine leather coat, at his genuine leather trousers, his genuine leather shoes and erupt into laughter.

'So, are you _deliberately_ bein' ignorant, or just a hypocrite?'

'Er…' Joey shifts uncomfortably in his chair. 'May I pass on this question?'

'No, Mister Boswell, you may _not_.' She leans in so they're only inches apart. 'So go on. Talk yer way out o' this one.'

'Well, you _see_ ,' he begins, twiddling his thumbs round and round, 'when I said I didn't want to kill animals for food…I thought…it was cruel to gnaw through a piece of one…'

'Whereas wrappin' the skin o' one around yer body isn't cruel?'

Joey's eyes dart back and forth. He's trying incredibly hard to think of a clever answer, but she's got him there. He can't _possibly_ think of a credible excuse for this.

'Well, I just…'

' _Yes?'_ She raises her brows as high as they'll go.

'I just…'

'You're an 'ypocrite.'

'Yeah, I'm a… _no!_ No, I'm not, I'm just…would it help if I said I liked wearin' leather _before_ I became a vegeratian?'

' _No,_ because you could easily 'ave gotten rid of all yer gear.'

'But what about my _style?_ It's not easy, you know, lookin' this _amazin'_ all the time!'

Martina just shakes her head fondly. 'You really _are_ ridiculous, you know that?'

'It makes sense in my world.'

'Oh, the Boswell kingdom, you mean?'

'That one, yeah.'

Martina puts her head in her hands and goes on shaking it.

'And what's so wrong with that? Just because our loving, united fam-i-ly may have different ways of looking at life…'

'Oh, yeah?' Martina raises her head from her hands, 'so you _all_ go around protestin' against eatin' meat and then wearin' it instead?'

'Well…no…' Joey says, somewhat guiltily, 'just me…'

'Then you can 'ardly say yer entire family are…'

'Ah, but they all support me in it, though,' Joey interjects, 'they will all stick by me in my decision. That is what we do, you see- we stick together in our unity…'

'Will you stop goin' on about 'unity'?' Martina doesn't mean anything by this, other than that his repetition of the same old 'we Boswells stick together' speeches are getting a tad on the obnoxious side, but the smile immediately falls from Joey's face.

'Oh- sorry, I just…I didn't think. I didn't mean to…bring up your brother or anythin'…'

Oh. It moves her slightly, the fact that he keeps remembering that, is remarkably considerate about it.

'I wasn't even thinkin' about that,' she says truthfully. She hadn't been thinking about it at all; her comment for him to shut up about unity wasn't because it made her think of her own family life, or lack thereof. It'd been more to do with the fact that she's heard the word so many times these past few weeks it's starting to get on her nerves, and she wishes he'd change the record just occasionally, come up with a different excuse for everything.

'Well, I didn't mean to bring it up, all the same,' Joey says, and Martina studies his face, making a note of all the concern she finds there. He pauses, and then puts his hand down on the table. 'I just worry, sometimes, sweetheart. I keep thinkin' about when you first told me about it, and how afterwards you said you were hopeless…'

'No I didn't. I said me _life_ was hopeless.'

'No, you distinctly said that _you_ were hopeless, and I don't want you to ever think that.'

 _Why?_ Martina wants to demand, but she doesn't.

'It's hard not ter feel that way, Mister Boswell, when everythin' in me life seems ter follow the same _depressing_ pattern.' She'd been in such a good mood, but suddenly she's fallen back into her usual bleak state. 'I keep makin' the same mistakes, and the same things keep 'appenin' ter me.'

'What mistakes?'

'Well, carin' fer people, for one.' She hadn't intended for it to come out so bluntly, but it does. 'I _still_ 'aven't learned to stop doin' that, and they keep usin' me.'

'Sweetheart,' Joey looks incredibly worried now, 'not everyone in life is like the people who come down the DHSS. It's okay not to trust people there, because you know they're gonna cheat, but outside, not everyone's gonna use you.'

He seems a little offended, as if she's accusing him of planning to use her and hurt her in the same way. Which, she supposes, she actually is.

'You can't stop trustin' everyone just because you've come across a few bad sorts. Just make a distinction between the people who might use you and the nice people in the world.'

'There's no such thing as 'nice people', Mister Boswell. All the nice people are dead.'

' _We're_ nice people.' He takes her hand in his.

'No, we're not.'

'What makes you say that?'

Martina wonders where to begin. 'Well, startin' with meself, I don't trust people, I don't sympathise with people, I take pleasure in sendin' people away from the DH- the DSS with nothin'- and as fer _you_ , you…'

'I know, I know, I swindle money, I'm arrogant and obnoxious and I'm a hypocrite because I'm a leather-wearin' vegetarian, I know.' He holds her hand tighter across the table. 'Doesn't make us bad people, really.'

'I don't know about that.'

'Well, perhaps I am, in some ways, but I know you're not, sweetheart.'

'And _how_ would you know?' she asks defiantly.

'Because I wouldn't have wanted to kiss you if you weren't a nice girl.' His voice is suddenly low, and he's mentioning _the incident,_ the way she's been hoping he won't. She frantically racks her brain for something to divert the subject to, but nothing leaps to mind. Her brain has been erased of all other memories.

'You only kissed me because we were drunk,' Martina asserts, finding all she can do to try and save herself is protest.

Joey just scrutinises her for a while, and then takes the hand that's trapped between both of his and presses his lips to it.

'Who says I wouldn't 'ave done it anyway, sweetheart?'

That's all she needs to hear, really, to make all her careful plans, her cleverly constructed boxes for locking her feelings away dissolve. The fact that he might possibly care for her, the fact that perhaps this isn't all just 'friendship' and that the incident wasn't just drunkenness, that he knows what he's doing and has something else in mind, is enough to give her a push, make her lose her balance as she's standing on the line between sanity and something else.

And so Martina falls off the edge of the precipice, into that ravine, that pit trap, that chasm of doom known as 'love.'

And it scares her so much that she gets up, right there and then, and runs out.

* * *

She runs straight into the middle of a downpour. The universe and the elements really _are_ conspiring against her, aren't they? It's as if they're deliberately _trying_ to trap her in situations with Joey Boswell, trying to force her to accept that she's falling in love with him, trying to make her ruin her life by breaking her firm resolution.

She's made a pact with herself never to let anyone play her for a fool again, and yet she's turned herself into the biggest fool there ever was, by walking right into the trap of love. And with _Joey Boswell._ Exactly the sort of person who _would_ take advantage of her, who _would_ give her more anguish and heartbreak. She's being swamped with feelings she doesn't want to have, but at the same time does, and it's all so dangerous and wrong. She has to remember Shifty. She has to remember the lovers before him- they were all the same. She has to remember Roger. She has to remember that all those people, whom she allowed herself to love, led her down a path of heartbreak and loss, and it's a path she's promised herself not to tread anymore.

Martina wants to just walk away, to keep walking until she's walked right off the face of the earth and thus never has to think about anything ever again, but she doesn't. She doesn't take a step in any direction, just stands there like a stunned mullet while the rain assaults her mercilessly, soaking her right through every layer of clothing she's wearing, and while her mind dances around hyperactively, desperately trying to make sense of everything.

It might be one minute or perhaps five, probably however long it takes for Joey to square things with the waiters and pay the bill for the dinner, but he emerges from the building, a silhouette half-obscured by the water that's showering down.

He looks around, spots her, waves. 'Martina!'

She neither flees nor approaches him. She's sort of stuck there, totally unsure what her next move is.

Joey starts toward her, his stride getting quicker until he's jogging, and then he's right in front of her.

'Martina, what's the matter?'

The matter is that she left the restaurant in some unplanned attempt to get away from all this overwhelming… _stuff._ The matter is that she's tried, so many times, to reinforce her walls when she's around Joey Boswell, to stop herself from letting the weakest parts of her show in front of him, and yet here she is, standing in the rain, vulnerable in front of him, looking into his face and _knowing_ she loves him, and it's frightening, it's bloody _terrifying_ , it's everything she doesn't want to happen.

'Did I say somethin' in there?' He looks genuinely concerned. 'What did I say, Martina? Did I upset you? Tell me- _please_.'

His words are so gentle that they make her angry. She doesn't want Joey Boswell to be considerate like this. She wants him to be annoying and selfish, so she can justifiably say she wants nothing to do with him, so she can look at him and only feel rage, not these rebellious love-thoughts that keep popping into her brain.

'I just- _can't_ ,' she says.

'Can't what?'

'I _don't know!_ ' Martina snaps. 'I just can't do whatever it is we're doin' now!'

'Well, if by 'now' you mean this exact moment, I wholeheartedly agree with you, sunshine. Gettin' drenched is not my cup of tea either, and you look like you're on the verge of comin' down with a nasty cold. Why don't I give you a lift home, get you out o' this rain, eh?'

'That's not what I-' she begins, but there's no point in trying to tell Joey that that's not what she meant, because he knows, is deliberately trying to turn this conversation the way he wants it to go. She shivers, and immediately reprimands her body for betraying her weakness. He'll just crow on about being right now.

'See? I knew I was right!' he crows.

 _There._ A very accurate prediction, Martina thinks.

'J-Mister Boswell, I can't just be fr- I mean, I don't think we should…' the words aren't coming out right. She growls in frustration, puts a palm to her forehead. 'I just don't know what I'm doin' anymore.'

That's true enough, at least. She hasn't a clue what she's doing. She's supposed to be avoiding romantic entanglements, and she tells herself that's what she's doing, and yet she keeps going places with him, doing things with him, having conversations with him, _feeling_ things for him.

The rain's been pounding down this entire time, drenching her completely, him less so, probably because the leather he's wearing is water-resistant, and Martina suddenly aches for somewhere warm and dry, longs to be anywhere but here, having to be confronted with all… _this_.

She shivers again.

'Look, we can't have this, can we, sweetheart?' He shrugs off his coat, and she feels its warmth and weight settle about her shoulders.

She purses her lips, has a good mind to throw it off, and into a puddle, just to spite him, but then another shudder runs through her, and the leather smells so nice, and the garment is so comfortable that she can't help (grudgingly) pulling it tighter around her, embracing the relief it gives her from the cold and the wet.

Joey looks far too pleased. 'Much better, isn't it, sunshine?'

She doesn't say it, but it is. It's lovely, but to admit so would be to have lost the game, the one they always seem to be playing, and so she clamps her mouth tightly shut.

'I'll get you home before you freeze to death,' Joey says, putting his hands on her shoulders, guiding her towards his Jag.

And she goes with him, she gets in the car, but the warning bells in her brain are jangling ferociously now.

* * *

The car ride is awkward. Martina sits there, wrapped in the coat, watching raindrops chase each other down the car windows, watching the dark and the wet and the blurs of streetlamps all meld together as Joey steers them away from the restaurant and back towards her apartment building.

She wants to say something to him, but what? What is there to say? Or rather, what part of it does she _choose_ to say to him? She tries to concentrate, tries to get her bearings and work out what to do, but her mind is clouded by her body's more immediate needs for warmth and shelter and her desire to escape it all and soak herself in a hot bath for hours on end. Despite wearing Joey's coat, she's still shivering, the sodden clothes underneath sticking to her skin and making goosebumps appear all over her.

Joey stops the Jag, takes one look at her and wraps his arms tightly around her, sharing some of his warmth, and even though she's supposed to be despising him for invoking these unwanted feelings of love in her, even though, really, she should be working out how to free herself from this unwanted love, something which probably involves never seeing him again, she nestles into him, takes in all the warmth he's offering. It's _nice_ , having him hold her. It's been so long since she's been held by anyone, and as well as body heat, she gets a sense of comfort from the embrace, the feeling that everything's going to be okay. She hasn't felt like this in Heaven knows how many years. It's the one part of being in love that she's missed the most, and despite the fact that she knows it can't last, that after it comes all the heartbreak, all the lying, all the pain, and despite the ringing, clanging, clashing warning bells inside her head, she lets herself feel it for just a little while.

It's several minutes before either of them moves.

* * *

She's still in a fog when they get out of the car, and on top of that, the effects of being rained on for at least a solid ten minutes are starting to take their toll, and so when he helps her out the Jag, holds onto her and guides her up the stairs to her front door, she lets him. She doesn't protest when he takes her key from her trembling hand and opens the door for her, and she doesn't complain when he walks her through the flat, pausing to turn on her rattly gas heater as they go, when he helps her into her bedroom and sits her down on the foot of her bed.

Martina's head feels heavy, and though she knows she should be asserting her own independence, insisting she can walk on her own, that she can pull her own shoes off without help, no-one ever does anything for her, and right now she's tired and dazed enough that she's content to hand over control to him for now.

Joey moves behind her, his fingers massaging her neck, and she relaxes into it, letting him take some of the tension from her shoulders.

'Come on,' he retrieves his coat, begins to peel hers away from under it. 'We'd better get you out of these wet things before you catch a chill.'

Martina gratefully lets him take her coat, her cardigan, but when his fingers take hold of the collar of her shirt, she whirls rapidly, shoving him. 'And _what_ do you think you are doing?'

He chuckles at her reaction. 'Calm down, sunshine, I'm just tryin' to help. It's nothin' I haven't seen before, anyway.'

She feels a rush of white-hot rage, and shoots him a hateful glare.

' _Yes it is_ ,' she growls ferociously, even though it's not true. How dare he say that. She wants to kill him.

Joey just laughs again. 'Whatever makes you happy, sweetheart.'

She banishes him to the other room while she changes. When she comes out, dry and wrapped in a dressing gown, he's holding out a steamy mug for her. She takes it gratefully, takes a sip, the tea burning the back of her throat in a wonderful way, warming her insides.

Joey watches her drink it.

'Don't you have a home and a big, united family to go to?'

'Indeed,' he replies, 'but what sort of gentleman would I be if I didn't make sure you weren't gonna die of pneumonia?'

'I think that's hardly likely.' She sneezes and loses all credibility.

Joey plants himself beside her on the sofa. 'I'm not goin' anywhere.'

'I'm not ill.'

'Not gonna take that risk.'

He puts the back of his hand to her forehead, checking for a temperature.

'I'm not _ill_ ,' she insists.

'Are you sure about that?'

She's worked out a long reprimand, followed by an order to go home, but what comes out is completely different, and completely out of her control.

'I have a headache.'

'Whereabouts?'

She looks at him. 'In me feet.'

'No, no, sweetheart, that isn't what I meant.' Oh, _he's_ allowed to say that, though, is he? Martina can't be bothered to make a jab at him, though. She's drained.

He takes her face in one hand, holds it while the other traces its way across her forehead. 'Where does it hurt? Here?' He kisses her temple. A jolt goes down her spine, but it's got nothing to do with the headache. She shuts her eyes. And suddenly she knows what's going to happen.

'Here?' Another kiss to the middle of her forehead, between her eyebrows.

His hand moves down, over her nose, over her lips.

'Or here?' He kisses her mouth and this one's longer, slower. Something in the air between them sizzles, and she responds instantaneously, without even thinking, without having to. This isn't like the urgent, messy kisses of last time- he's calculated this, and his mouth moves deliberately against hers, pressure and timing all designed to elicit a reaction from her. Not that it'd take all that much calculation to get one right now, because she wants this kiss, likes it, and it's warm and soft and tender and everything she's craved for years but has never gotten from anyone.

And they stay like that for ages, and her lungs start to ache from need of air, but she doesn't want to break away, not when this is so blissful. Her head becomes faint, she's dizzy from lack of oxygen, and just as she thinks she might just let the sensation take her and pass out he makes the decision for her, pulling back. She gasps and splutters, taking in big lungfuls of air, and it's as she feels blood rush back to her head that it all dawns on her- what she's doing, what she's just done. What she's nearly just done again.

Joey leans back in for another kiss, and she turns her head away.

'No.'

'Martina…'

' _Don't_.' She shuffles away from him to the other side of the sofa, putting a good arm's length between them. 'I can't do this.'

'Why not?' He runs his hand up her arm. 'You want to.'

And that's the problem, of course. Because she does want to. But she can't. Never again, she promised herself. And she means to keep her promise.

'Because…' she struggles to find the words, 'because it's not right! We can't keep goin' on like this just because we need a distraction from everything that's happened to us.'

'Is that all you think this is? A distraction?'

'You miss your wife and yer son, I'm still gettin' over Shifty. _That's_ all it is,' she snaps, and then softens her voice. 'That's all it ever was, and we both know that. You can't keep feelin' sorry fer me- and you can't keep runnin' back to me every time you feel lonely or depressed. Why it was me in the first place I'll never know- I can't even _stand_ you!'

He recoils. She's hurt him, has done it on purpose and for this she feels a twinge of guilt, but he lets go of her arm, moves back from her, so it's worked. Good.

'Okay, Martina,' he says coldly, getting to his feet. 'If that's what you really think.'

He picks his jacket up off the back of the couch and makes for the door. And good riddance. She doesn't need unnecessary emotional entanglements in her life.

'No, wait!' And there she goes, completely ignoring her common sense. She stumbles across the room- she'd run but there's too much mess about- getting to the doorway just as he's stepped out onto the landing.

'Oh. Did you wish to say somethin'?' Joey's voice isn't accommodating.

She leans against the doorframe, trying to steady herself, aware of how feeble she looks right now.

'I didn't mean it.'

'Didn't mean what?'

'When I said I couldn't stand you…' she can't break down now, she has to stay strong as she says this, 'I was lying.'

He raises an eyebrow.

'There _was_ a time when I couldn't- a long, long time,' she laughs half-heartedly, 'but since you've come back something _has_ changed- despite everything I really 'ave grown ter like you.'

His gaze thaws somewhat.

She reaches out, fiddles with one of the buttons on his coat. 'But _this_ …I just can't. I can't get involved with you.'

Joey nods. 'Right.'

'I'm…' she's running out of things to say, '…sorry.'

'Right,' Joey says again. 'Okay. I get the picture.'

'No, I don't think you do-' he doesn't understand, doesn't realise that she's given up that side of her life for good. She's made a vow not to care for anyone in that way again, and it's not him, it's the fact that she never wants to make a mess of things again. And a romance with Joey Boswell would, undoubtedly, be one of the messiest messes of all time.

'You've made yourself perfectly clear,' Joey's voice is hard again. 'You don't want to be with me. _Point taken._ '

And then he's gone and Martina's left with his last words ringing in her head and a sense of injustice welling up inside her.

 _It's not fair. You wouldn't let me explain._ _Typical selfish Boswell._

* * *

The next day she calls him up, and after a few pleas on her part arranges to meet with him, sits him down and explains her predicament with grim finality.

'I'm through with love.'

He doesn't say anything.

'I mean it. I made the decision not ter get attached to anyone. Ever again. And I mean to stick to it. All… _this_ …has got to stop.'

He gives a strange, rueful little laugh. 'You can't just _decide_ not to care for anybody. It's one of those things that just happens.'

'I can,' she says, her tone hard. She's had a lot of practise at the heartless, dismissive approach. Her job's prepared her well. 'And I 'ave.'

'Doesn't work like that.'

'Look,' she's frustrated now, grabs hold of his shirt, holds him in place so he'll listen, 'leavin' Shifty was the hardest thing I've ever done. And it shouldn't have been. He was no good for me, and I knew it. But I put meself through years of torture because I'd deluded meself into thinkin' I loved him- thinkin' I _cared._ And lovin' 'im only made it hurt more. It hurt when I stayed, and it hurt when I left. And it _still_ hurts when I think about it.'

She exhales after all that- her speech is almost as long as one of his. 'Gettin' involved with people makes me start to care. And carin' causes pain. I won't do that again.'

He's silent.

'I just won't.'

He's still silent. And then with a movement so swift she's got no time to prepare for it, he's leapt up and grabbed her, swept her into his arms in such a powerful manoeuvre that she can't resist, and he's holding her so tightly she can't struggle, their faces inches apart.

'Now it's your turn to listen, little DHSS lady,' he says, 'don't presume I don't know what's goin' on in your head. I've loved Roxy for nearly _all me adult life._ I've watched her walk away from me more times than I can count on two hands. And I've pleaded with her to come back because I loved her- and that was a stupid mistake, wasn't it, because look where it got me.'

'It's not-' Martina begins, but she doesn't get the rest of her sentence out.

'Now you said last night that what happened between us meant nothin'. Well, I don't know about you, but after lovin' Roxy for so long, havin' her as the centre of me _world_ and then losin' her, vowin', like you did, that there would be no more women ever again- if you can even think of startin' somethin' with someone else after that kind of heartbreak it's not because you're lonely or because you need a distraction. It's because of one reason only- and don't say it hasn't happened to you, too, because I can see it has. You _know_ it has.'

Martina wants to cry, but that would be unlike her. She doesn't cry. She doesn't even know what emotion she would be exhibiting if she did. So she doesn't do it. But she doesn't want to hear the one reason he's mentioned, because she knows what he's going to say, and to hear it would be the destruction of everything she's tried to keep intact- all her strong fortresses of isolation.

'Don't say it, Mister Boswell.'

He grips her tighter- he's angry now. 'I didn't ask to fall in love with you, did I? I tried not to!'

'Oh, and that's supposed to make things better, is it? I feel so much more _reassured_ , knowin' that you love me _even when you don't want to_. That makes me _ever_ so much more inclined to make a fool of meself for you!'

Their eyes lock. Martina tries to burn through him with blazing hatred, but at the back of her mind she's just hoping he can't see the tears she feels are trying to come.

Joey just looks at her for a moment, then releases his hold on her. 'I'm sorry you feel that way,' he says flatly, and then he turns and leaves.

Martina stares after him, watching the way he jerks the door open and lets it swing carelessly shut, feeling a knot begin to form in her stomach and wondering what she's just done.

* * *

The days pass in a drizzle of misery that seeps down all over her. Martina should be feeling better, she thinks. She tells herself off. She's done the right thing. No sense in feeling bad about _that._ Any relationship with Joey was doomed to fail anyway.

She'd convinced herself she didn't want this, didn't need him, would be better off without him. It's more in keeping with her original plan this way- stay away from the fire and you don't get burnt. She'd thought she'd feel better for making the break before anything happened.

But now he's out of her life, she realises she wants him.

Badly.

The longing churns in her gut like food poisoning, wracking her system. Martina misses him, wants to see his face, hear his laugh, feel his arms round her, his mouth at her ear whispering that it's okay, that they're going to get through this, that everything will be fine.

This is wrong, this is so wrong. She's not supposed to be feeling like this. She's given up love.

Love only leads to loss. She's vowed never to fall in it again- never let herself get hurt or make another Shifty-type mistake. But it's too late. She already has.

She loves Joey Boswell, and she feels the familiar pangs. It's hurting, and she hasn't even succumbed to it.

Seems she can't do anything right. It's painful when she gives in to love, and it's painful when she doesn't. She keeps the relationships that give her the most heartbreak, and when it seems she's got the chance for something better, she turns it down. Either way she's unhappy.

Maybe she should have stayed with Shifty after all. At least then she would have had some certainty, even if it did mean constant depression. At least then nobody else would be caught up in the tangled webs she manages to weave.

No. Nothing's so bad that she should be thinking that. She shakes her head. Just because she's made another mistake doesn't mean she has to think wistfully of her old ones. She's going to stay alone from now on, and this time, she's not going to let herself get into any situation that could warrant a new attachment.

But her mind's in such turmoil, and she's so desperate to stop thinking of Joey, that when, in a few minutes, the phone rings, she makes a very, _very_ stupid decision.

* * *

'Hello, extension 6-4-7.'

'Martina.'

She freezes. Shifty. Why is he phoning her now? It's been months. She'd thought he'd gotten over this by now.

'What do you want?'

'Look, I just wanted to say I'm sorry for tryin' to throw out your post-office book.'

That was a long time ago, and she points this out.

'I know, but it's been on me _mind_ , you see.'

'Well then,' says Martina coldly, 'you've cleared yer conscience, you can 'ang up now.'

'Wait,' he cuts in quickly, before she can put the receiver down on him. She drums her fingers as she waits for him to go on.

'I've missed you.'

Martina frowns.

'Missed _me_ , or the _idea_ of me?'

'The real you. Your face, and the way you laugh, and that funny little walk…'

Indignantly: 'I don't have a funny walk.'

'Is that all you can say?'

She sighs. She doesn't like these sorts of games. 'What am I supposed to say?'

'Thing is, Martina- I'm nothin' without you. I'm a shadow of a man.'

She doesn't reply.

'I want you back. I _need_ you back.'

She can believe the need part. Shifty has never tried to cope on his own. He's always leeched off someone else- even in prison he had his meals provided for him.

'You don't need _me_ , Shifty. You just need someone ter look after you.'

'You've got me all wrong! You have! Give me another chance, I beg of you! I'll make it up to you, I'll be a better man!'

' _No,_ Shifty. I told you. It's over. And this time, it actually is.'

'At least come and meet with me tomorrow. Just to talk it over.' He sounds like a scrounging pup. 'No harm in that, is there?'

_Say no, don't fall into the trap again. Through with love, remember? That's why you turned Joey down, even though you…_

'I'll give you an hour of me time. Don't expect more- and don't expect me to change me mind and take you back.' She can't believe herself, what she's doing. That's how it always happens. The thin end of the wedge. She lets him back in for an hour and all of a sudden he's a permanent fixture again. It's happened so many times, and she _still_ hasn't learned her lesson.

But she doesn't want to think about loving Joey. That's why she's accepted Shifty. That's why she'll go. She's made a hash of things once again- a new mess to add to all the other messes that make up her life, and before she knows it both she and Joey'll get hurt if she doesn't find some way of putting him out of her mind for good.

And this might be a terrible alternative, but at least things will go back to the way they should be, and she'll forget all about these past few weeks with Joey.

* * *

He corners her that afternoon, as she's leaving work. So much for forgetting him.

'I hear you're seein' Shifty tomorrow.'

She refuses to meet his gaze. 'You heard right.' And then she pauses. ' 'ow did you know? I thought yer family excommunicated 'im.'

'I just know,' Joey says unhelpfully, and she rolls her eyes.

'D'you mind if I ask _why_ you plan to injure yourself all over again? I thought that was your whole argument for not seein' me- that you were through with all that. You were savin' yourself from more heartbreak, you said.'

'D'you mind if I ask why it's any of your _business_?' she asks cruelly. 'If I want ter see Shifty, I will- if I love 'im, what's it ter _you?_ ' She's saying it all to hurt him, to push him away. He needs to forget about her. It's best in the long run.

She pushes past him, heads for the stairs.

Joey grabs hold of her wrist.

'But you _don't_ ,' he says through his teeth. 'You love _me_ \- you _know you do._ '

Oh, yes. She knows all too well she does. That's the whole problem.

'I never _said_ that.' She lays special stress on the word 'said', because if she utters it like this, it's true. She's never said out loud she loves Joey Boswell.

'You are a _stubborn_ little thing, aren't you?' he snaps. 'You'll never back down and admit somethin', will you?'

'Er- this from _you_!' she scoffs.

'So you'd rather deliberately put yourself back in a situation where you _know_ you'll get hurt than let me care for you?' He's angry, no, he's verging on furious now. 'Well _thank you_ , Martina, for your very high opinion of me. It makes me feel so wonderful, knowin' that you think _so little of me_ you'd prefer to live in misery than risk lovin' me.' He drops her hand, turns on his heel and stalks off, his coat billowing behind him as he storms down the stairs.

Martina puts her head in her hands and wishes she was dead.

* * *

She goes to see Shifty anyway, out of sheer stubbornness. Joey was right about that. She _is_ a stubborn little thing. Always has been.

They meet in Sefton Park, a safe sort of place- easy enough to get away from, Martina thinks, and she sits as far away from him in the bench as possible. The look he gives her repulses her. It's smarmily sheepish.

'Go on, then,' she says, 'say what you 'ave ter say, and then crawl back under whatever stone you came from.'

'You should come back, Martina!' he immediately begins. 'You can't be happy on your own, and I know I'm a miserable sod meself…'

If he only knew. She's barely _been_ on her own these days, because of all that time she's wasted with his cousin. She swallows. She doesn't want to think about Joey. Not now. That's why she came here, to get herself distracted.

'As I have said about an 'undred times before,' she says sternly, focussing on the task at hand, on the man in front of her, 'it's yer own fault you're alone. You _drove me_ ter leave you, Shifty, with all yer stealin' and lyin' and other women…'

'It's all because o' me _childhood_ ,' Shifty insists, as always, 'and anyway, it doesn't matter, I'm a better man, now! This break we've had's given me time to see the error of me ways. I'm goin' straight now, you see. Well, yesterday I had a bit of a joyride in a car, but apart from that, I'm a good man now.'

'Er, it wasn't a break. I was serious when I left you. I meant it.'

'I thought you just needed some time to cool down…'

'If it'd been that, I'd have come back by now. Shifty, it's been _months._ Doesn't that mean anything to you? Doesn't that make you think that just _maybe_ it was fer good?'

'But why should it be for good? I told you, I've _changed_!'

'So you told me the last time, as well- and practically every other time. I've given you too many second chances. I'm not gonna do it again. I'm off.'

She moves to leave, and he grabs hold of her.

'In my defence,' Shifty says, and then rams his mouth against hers.

It's what he always does, because he knows it gets results. She'll have just about made up her mind to be finished with him forever, and he'll ask for his _dying man's last request_ , kiss her, and it's always so familiar and so passionate and it hazes up her mind just _so_ , and she always, always gives in to him, lets him back into her life.

And when she feels the hot lips clash with hers she remembers just how it feels to have Shifty love her, how it felt at the beginning when he really did, when she really did love him too, when things between them were all right, and she'd occasionally felt a glimmer of hope that there might be some kind of mundane happiness with him. Martina remembers how this feels, and for a second nothing's changed, and she responds the way she always has.

Wait, wait, _wait_.

No, something _has_ changed, and she knows what it is.

Because even though she can feel how it was, what she had, it's not what she wants anymore. That path is well and truly closed-off, and even a kiss can't save it this time. It's too late for her and Shifty, long past too late.

And that's because she's remembering the feel of another pair of lips.

She doesn't want this, doesn't want Shifty's apology kisses that don't mean anything, doesn't want to sink back into that slough of despair that had been her life. She can have better, she realises now. And oh, how she wants _that_.

They've broken apart during this course of thought, and Martina realises her epiphany has come to her in a matter of seconds, though she's gone through what she thinks should be a lengthy process of consideration.

She jumps up, pulls her handbag over her shoulder, and she knows exactly what she's going to do, and how she's going to do it.

'Wait, where are you going?' Shifty whines. 'I thought we were gonna talk about this!'

'I have to talk to someone else now,' Martina says. 'It can't wait.'

'Who?'

Martina remembers back to an earlier conversation of theirs, on the night she went back for her post-office book, and she smirks.

'Me _lover_ ,' she says, gauging his reaction and loving it. 'You said I had one, and you were right. Yer timin' was just a bit off.'

'What?' says Shifty. _'What?'_

She turns and strides up the path, going as fast as she can without breaking into a run- after all, she's still meant to be a calm and self-possessed DHSS lady, (DSS, she corrects mentally, but takes no notice of herself) and she's not going to give up that image entirely by losing all her inhibitions.

'What?' Shifty continues to call from behind her, his cries fading off into the distance as she gets further and further away from him. 'What?!'

* * *

Come to think of it, it's probably the most stupid idea in the world- to go straight to Kelsall Street and knock on the door of Number Thirty, but that's what she does. She goes right up to the front door and knocks without hesitation. Just a few months ago, she would never have dreamed of doing this, would have had a psychiatric report written for anyone who insinuated that she would voluntarily be going into the lair of the enemy, the Boswell house.

It's absolutely necessary, though. She's just made a life-changing decision- to let Joey Boswell love her, and to love him in return.

All her life she's contented herself with less, with the most pathetic things she can get out of life, because she's never thought she's entitled to more. But now she's seen that she can have more, it's been offered to her on a plate, and she's sent that plate back to the kitchen like some oaf at a restaurant who's realised they've been charged an entrée price for a main course and is too honest to take advantage of it. And she's going to get it back before someone else eats it, so to speak.

She wants better. She just hopes she can still have it.

A woman answers the door, grey hair dyed blonde, glistening eyes and an apron wrapped round her waist. Joey's mother.

'Oh, hello, love,' she says, giving Martina the once-over. 'I'm afraid if you're sellin' anything, you've come to the wrong place- we don't…'

'No,' she cuts her off, feeling rather awkward and embarrassed. She'd been hoping to catch Joey home alone. She can't well make a declaration of love in front of his gawking relatives. 'I…er, is your Joey there? I just wanted a word with him.'

Nellie Boswell's face softens, her smile becoming warmer. 'Oh, you're a friend of Joey's, are you, love? Well come in, come in!'

And Martina steps into the house, feeling like she's going to be sick. This is all going wrong. There weren't supposed to be other people here. She wasn't supposed to have an audience. Ah well- too late to do anything about that now. She's going to do this, regardless.

Billy's slouching on the sofa, the telly on full blast. He glances up, jumps right to his feet when he sees her.

'What are _you_ doin' in our 'ouse?!' He points at her accusingly.

Martina ignores him. She's got bigger fish to fry.

Nellie calls for Joey, and he emerges from the other room, jaw dropping when he sees her standing there.

'Martina,' his voice comes out flat, expressionless. 'You're _here.'_

She nods. 'I need to talk ter you.'

'I think you've already said your piece several times.'

'Please.' Her voice is just as flat as his. He considers, nods, gestures to the door. Nellie and Billy look on in confusion as they walk towards the door and step outside.

There's a bit of a chill, compared to inside the house- well, the Boswells did always use an inordinate amount of heat, didn't they, judging by their bills- and Martina wraps her arms around herself, partly for warmth, partly as a form of self-comfort.

Joey stands in front of her, his face as blank and impassive as she's ever seen it.

'I thought you were with Shifty.'

'I was, but…I changed me mind. I didn't wanna go back to 'im, not after everythin'. And anyway, I 'ad ter…tell you somethin'.'

He crosses one foot over the other. 'Tell me, then.'

'You were right. I do love you.'

Joey blinks at her. 'That it?'

What else is there to say?

'I'm sorry,' she mutters, thinking on the spot, trying to right wrongs as she goes, 'and…and I _do_ think highly of you, and everythin' I said, I was just bein' stubborn- you were right about that too.' She's rambling. She doesn't care. She needs to get this out.

Joey doesn't say anything. Perhaps this has all come too late. Martina's filled with despair.

'I just thought you should know, is all.' She turns, take a step away from him, and then in an instant she feels him grab her, wrap his arms around her waist, pull her back and fold her against him.

'Where do you think you're goin'? You can't just say somethin' like that and then disappear!'

She twists around to face him, and notices his eyes are watering. And oh, how she wishes they wouldn't, because they'll make hers start doing likewise in a minute. Her instincts kick in, and she puts one hand up to touch him, running it up and down the side of his face. It feels nice.

It feels right.

'Martina,' Joey says, and though he's still on the verge of tears, his voice is stern, 'you know how I feel about you- I think I've made meself clear enough for you to know that I love you- that you can have me love for as long as you want- but I think we need to clear some things up, sweetheart.'

She nods, a little fearful of what he might say, but reassured in the fact that he's just, to use his own words, offered her his love _for as long as she wants it_. Bearing that in mind, he surely can't be turning her down. She listens with bated breath.

'First of all,' he pushes her hair off her face, kisses her forehead, 'are you willin' to take a chance on me- properly? None o' this pretendin' you're finished with love and keepin' people at arm's length rubbish-will you accept that if you're with me, we're together, and it's real- it's _official_?'

Martina shuts her eyes. This is what she's dreaded most of all- making her love official, proclaiming it out loud. It would be so much easier to pretend it wasn't happening, and she knows that if she accepts this now, she's got to be prepared for an intense connection, and possibly intense heartbreak at the end of it, too. It's everything she's been trying to avoid. But she wants it, really, she does.

' _Yes_ ,' she whispers with feeling. 'I wouldn't be 'ere if I wasn't, would I, Mister Boswell?'

Joey makes a _hmm_ noise. 'Second, sweetheart, no more of this _Mister Boswell_ stuff- we're not in the DHSS now, are we?'

'DSS,' Martina corrects, but he takes no notice. No-one does. No-one ever does. And who even cares?

'Me name is _Joey_ \- and if I do say so meself, it's a fantastic name.'

She rolls her eyes. 'Typical Boswell ego.'

'Oh, shush about my _ego_ , sweetheart. Come here.' He kisses her, and this time she doesn't try to stop him, this time there are no warning signs going off in her head- it's just pure bliss. She lets her mind detach and drift away from the rest of her, completely losing herself in the feeling of being submerged in love, submerged in _Joey's_ love, in the warm happiness that wells up inside her.

Martina hears footsteps, but she's too wrapped up in the kiss to bother looking round.

'Eh, Joey,' comes Billy's voice, 'I came to see what was taking you so… _aaargh!_ What are you doin'?! You're ruinin' me _eyes_ , you are!' And with a holler, he runs back into the house, shouting _MAM!_ so loudly the entire street is likely to come running.

Joey breaks away, holding in a snigger. His eyes are no longer teary, but glinting with a mischief she knows all too well.

'Think we may 'ave traumatised him,' he says, and Martina snickers.

They laugh for a minute or two, then Joey's face grows serious. He puts a hand on either side of her head and kisses her again, and Martina lets him, is quite _happy_ to. And Martina's _never_ happy. Something must be at work here.

When they break apart, they wrap their arms round each other and stand like that on the street, ignoring the stray cars that go past, ignoring the fact that Billy's come back out to stand in the doorway and is gaping, ignoring everything except each other, the two of them.

Martina had made a firm decision. Never, ever fall in love again. And she'd planned to stick by this resolution no matter what.

She's glad now she didn't.

Whether she'll still be glad in a year's time from now, in a month's time from now, even in a day's time from now remains to be seen. There are so many things that could go wrong.

But right now she couldn't bloody care less.

She wraps her arms more tightly around him, rests her head against his collarbone. 'I love you...Joey.'

'Tell me that just one more time,' Joey says.

'I love you,' she repeats. And she does. And it makes her happy to say so.

I love you.

And at the end of the day, she supposes that's all that matters.

 _I love you_.


End file.
